Electromagnetism
by Fogwood
Summary: Dark afternoons seldom bring good tidings, and on just such a day Ginny's life is forever altered. As she struggles to adjust, her friends and family face decisions that will lead the Wizarding World to salvation, destruction, or revolution. AU Post-OotP
1. Electromagnetic Phenomena

Electromagnetism n.

-1- Magnetism produced by electric charge in motion.

-2- The physics of electricity and magnetism.

8

Dark afternoons seldom bring good tidings, and it is on just such a day that Ginny's life is forever altered. As she struggles to adjust, her friends and family face decisions that will lead the Wizarding World towards salvation, destruction, or revolution.

8

"I'm home!"

Ginny looked up from where she was sketching on the last smooth page of a coiled book. It had been a lazy day of lounging around the house enjoying the slightly cool turn of weather with steaming cup of tea. Her solitary estivation was rudely interrupted by a giant cardboard box with legs that staggered drunkenly through the front door. It stumbled and went down in a heap in the middle of the entryway. A rather sheepish-looking Arthur Weasley poked his head out of the debris.

"Arthur? Is that you?" Her mother came down the stairs, wiping her hands on the front of her apron. "Oh good, will you come upstairs for a moment? I'm cleaning out your old trunk and need to know what you want to keep. Ginny, be a dear and take the soup off. It should be done by now." Throwing an expectant glance at her husband she ascended the stairs.

Mr. Weasley dusted himself off and, looking longingly at the pile of junk in the middle of the floor, followed his wife.

Ginny sighed and glanced at the pile. The bits her father chose to bring home from work were always cause for some confusion. If you didn't look closely enough, her father had many of the eccentricities of a slightly senile old man, and the gumption to match, with the way he appeared so meek around his wife. She had had a rather derisive attitude towards him when she was younger, to her shame. Lovingly derisive, but generally he had been rather low in her esteem. It wasn't until after her first year at Hogwarts that she'd truly begun to notice the subtleties in the interactions between her parents, a give and take too well-practiced to be immediately obvious, but undeniable in its existence. She set down her pad and stuck her pencil behind her ear before walking into the kitchen. Of course, she'd also witnessed a few times in the past couple of years when the unflappable calm her father had worn all throughout her childhood slipped, and she was now certain that the genetic Weasley Temper was not solely inherited from her mother.

Grabbing a tea towel off the rack, she wrapped it around her hand and gently lifted the soup off the stove. Hanging the cloth back up, Ginny returned to the hall where the pile was sitting innocently. She usually only ever had a minimal idea of the functions of whatever her father salvaged from work, and so eyes its contents with confusion but also a fair amount of curiosity. She had learned through experience that practically nothing her dad brought home was "innocent", so she cautiously leaned down and picked the empty box off the top of the pile. Turning it over she read:

COMPEWTERS (ECCLECTRIC?)

Curious now, Ginny looked towards the pile. It was composed mostly of green wafers and red, black, and yellow wiring, but there, glinting in the light, was something flat and silver-grey. Picking it up, she turned it over in her hands. It seemed like a case of some sort - heavy, but Ginny was pretty sure she could open it if she tried.

"Do you like it?"

Startled, Ginny spun around. Her father was standing behind her, peering eagerly over her shoulder.

"It came in yesterday with the rest of this box. A fascinating example of Muggle technology. They use them to count and write letters. Although," he continued, sounding a little put out, "it doesn't have any batteries in it and didn't come with any plugs . . . . But you know, I found the most marvelous thing amongst the other items brought in. It's got a delightful humming sound, Perkins says it makes coffee, and Muggles plug it into their walls! I wish I knew how..."

Ginny gave a half smile at her father's speech. He was certainly more capable and less flighty than he made himself out to be,but she'd been living with him for fifteen years and she still had no idea how he got so excited about plugs. Some Muggle things were very interesting, but she would never understand why he liked plugs in particular.

"Would you like it?" he asked, interrupting her train of thought.

"What?"

"The silver box. I think it's called a . . . a kom—kom . . . ." he trailed off, apparently trying to think of its name.

"Really?" Ginny asked, turning it over in her hands, feeling all of its smooth edges.

"Sure, sure. Perkins looked it over, and the worst thing he found was a sleeping jinx." He smiled, his eyes drifting over to the pile of things.

"Thanks, Dad." Ginny grinned and gave her father a hug. It wasn't the first time she'd ended up with spoils from the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, but it was a little exciting all the same. She walked over to the couch, picked up her sketchbook, and ran up the stairs two at a time.

"Supper is in five minutes," she heard as she passed her mother on her way up the steps, "and I'd like you to help set the table!"

Flinging open her bedroom door, she bounded across the room and hopped onto her bed, shoving both the silver box and the sketchbook under her pillow. Running a brush quickly through her hair she dashed back down for dinner.

8

The next morning, Ginny lay in bed contemplating whether or not getting up would be worth getting out from under the warm covers. Deciding that it wasn't, but that the smell of pancakes wafting up from downstairs was, she slipped out of bed, her bare legs protesting the sudden change in temperature. Ginny shivered as her feet touched the cold planks, and she looked out the window. Not only had yesterday's cold spell worsened, but the sky was grey as the clouds made their dark and ominous way across it.

Quickly slipping on a pair of woolly maroon socks previously stolen from Ron's sock drawer, a pair of jeans that used to belong to Fred, and an oversized Weasley jumper(that she was reasonably certain has once belonged to Bill), she headed to breakfast.

Sliding into an empty seat at the table, she eyed the stack of pancakes hungrily. Hogwarts food was good, but even a couple hundred house elves couldn't hold a candle to the cooking of Molly Weasley. Picking up about four with her fork and plopping them on her plate, she looked around for the honey.

Seeing it, she called out thoughtlessly, "Harry, will you pass me the honey? It's beside your—Harry? When did you get here?" She mentally congratulated herself. Time was, she would have noticed that Harry had arrived the minute he was below the same roof as her, if not before. She was pleased that she could now genuinely say he had no effect on her. Well, none that any of her other brothers wouldn't have had at any rate.

"This morning, obviously!" The youngest of said siblings enlightened her through a mouthful of pancakes and strawberry jam.

"Ugh," said Ginny, wrinkling up her nose. "Well, good morning then," she said, once again addressing Harry.

"Erm, morning," was all that she got in response. Before she might have explained away his reticence as a disinclination to mince words, but now she was starting to wonder if he was just a bit thick.

Rolling her eyes at his noncommittal reply, she turned to her mother. "Mum, I was thinking of going down to the village today. I need a new notebook."

Mrs. Weasley regarded her daughter for a moment. "Well, I suppose if you went soon you might get back here before the storm. Do you need some Muggle money?"

"Nope, I have some left over from the last time I went."

"Well, would you like some company? I'm sure Harry would be happy to accompany you, wouldn't you Harry? After all, Ron's still got homework to do before he can entertain anyone." She sent a smile at Harry and a slightly threatening look at her youngest son.

"Er…" Harry said, looking immensely uncomfortable.

Ginny inwardly winced. Despite her now disregard for all things Harry she still didn't fancy a walk into town with him. "Mum," she tried to sound rational, "I've been to the village hundreds of times by myself, I really don't need a chaperone."

"Of course not, dear, but wouldn't you like—" Her mother was giving her a pointed look.

"Sure."

Both Ginny and Mrs. Weasley turned to Harry.

"Er, I mean . . .if Ron's busy . . ." He had a panicked expression on his face - as if he regretted drawing attention back to himself.

Ron sent Harry a glare.

"Lovely. I'll pack you some sandwiches and th—"

"Mum, relax, we just ate!"

"Oh right, well, no sandwiches, then. Just mind the storm!"

And so it was that Ginny found herself walking side by side with a certain Harry Potter, trying for the life of her to remember why she'd fancied him in the first place. He was noble? Courageous? Shy? Right. All those things and more - including a horrible conversationalist.

"So, er, uh . . . how's your summer going?"

Did she mention original and witty?

"Fine, thanks," she snapped, wondering when she had become so irritated by him.

He seemed a little uncomfortable with her answer and so their 'conversation' lapsed once again into silence.

Tiring of it quickly, Ginny quickened her stride. She didn't notice when Harry started lagging behind, and it was only when a hand reached out, firmly gripping her shoulder and pulling her to a stop that she realized Harry was completely out of breath and clutching his side.

"Hold up a moment!" he gasped out, massaging the stitch below his ribs.

Ginny smirked. "I thought you were in shape! You know, 'Harry Potter, star Seeker of the Gryffindor Quidditch team', etcetera etcetera?"

He laughed. "Yeah, well . . ." He broke off, trying to find a suitable excuse.

"Ha! I bet you couldn't run one lap around the common room!" She knew she was taunting him, yes, but she was still annoyed at his agreeing to come along if he didn't have anything to say to her.

"I could too..." he faltered, "Well Quidditch doesn't involve running, does it? Besides, I'm the seeker, not some Neanderthal."

Ginny, who was reconsidering her earlier assessment that he didn't have two units of wit to rub together (he did, after all, know what a Neanderthal was), paused for a second, then cried out in indignation as Harry shot her a grin and took off running in the direction of the village. What an arse! A sneaky, childish, hasty arse.

Still laughing at the look on Ginny's face, Harry sprinted up the hill and stopped at the top, a triumphant look on his face. Within seconds, red hair could be seen coming up over the top of the hill; the face it belonged to wore a chastised scowl.

"Fine!" she gasped out, her face pink. "You win—with a head start!"

"Excuses, excuses," Harry said cheekily.

"Sure," she mumbled. "Just come on."

Walking side by side, the ice between them thinner but not gone, Harry summoned up another question from his apparent font of awful conversation starters.

"What are you going to do with a sketchbook?"

At this she turned to stare at him. "I'm going to do what one usually does with a sketchbook, Harry. Sketch."

If he noticed her disdain he didn't how it. Instead he continued amiably. "Oh, really?" Yes really. Merlin, did the boy have no sense of inference? "I didn't know you could draw."

Of course he didn't. That's because this was the longest conversation they'd ever had, and the only one that had yet to mention Ron, who was really their only commonality. "I'm sure there are a lot of things you don't know about me." He'd never bothered to ask.

"So tell me." Damn him and his asking. Part of his not knowing was lack of interest on his behalf but, ever since Tom, she'd become an extremely private person and generally disliked talking about herself.

But it would make her an arse if she refused to answer.

"I like to draw." She said, regretting immediately not sounding at least more articulate than him. "I can juggle," Ginny continued, "and walk on my hands, courtesy of the twins. I like most forms of art, but can't hold a tune. My best subject is Charms and worst is Herbology. I love swimming almost as much as I love flying, and my favourite flavour of ice cream is Pumpkin Crunch."

Harry blinked at her. She fought the urge to sigh. Well, that was it; that was the most she'd ever told him about herself, and she may as well have been telling Errol. Despite her mental diatribe about his faults, she'd still been hoping for some kind of positive reaction. She started walking again, and just when the silence was becoming too awkward to bear, he said:

"I always wanted to know how to swim; I thought it would be a bit like flying."

She raised an eyebrow. Maybe not _all_ hope was lost. That was a reaction of a sort.

"And then I came to Hogwarts and learned I actually could fly. And it turns out swimming isn't at all like flying, but more like being weightless in a sloshy, transparent vat of pudding."

He _did_ have a way with words. She smiled nonetheless at his description, but he wasn't finished.

"It was kind of nice, though, until my gills disappeared."

And then she couldn't help but laugh, and he laughed with her, and the two soon fell into an almost easy conversation, indifferent to the ever-increasing darkness.

8

A bell jingled as they walked into the general store. It was dimly lit; there appeared to be no lighting except the small amount filtering through the windows. Staying close to Ginny, Harry let his eyes adjust. Together, they walked further into the store. Harry's head hit something. Reaching up, he felt a chain. He pulled and a single light bulb blinked on. Looking around, they saw the walls were crammed with bottles and caved-in boxes.

"Hello?" Ginny called, somewhat timidly.

There was no answer, so she called out louder.

There was a rustling sound and a loud squawk. A short grey-looking man stumbled into view. Peering at them over the counter, he adjusted thick lenses on his nose.

"Why, hello there," he addressed Harry and Ginny before turning around and calling out, "Patty! We've got customers!" Turning about once more, he asked in a cheerful voice, "What can I help you with?"

Sounding uncomfortable, Ginny stated, "Erm, well I just came for a sketchbook. . ."

The old man blinked, his eyes looking unnaturally large. "Hm. I believe I have something here somewhere--" He turned and trotted into what may have been the back room.

Listening to what sounded like a niffler running rampant in jewelry store, Harry and Ginny looked at each other with similar degrees of apprehension of their faces. Sometimes Muggles could be even stranger than their magical counterparts. There was a resounding boom and the funny old man came wobbling out, his wispy hair smoking slightly.

"I found it!" he cried victoriously, waving a coiled blue book in his hand. He set it on the counter and looked at Ginny expectantly. "Sixteen shillings."

Ginny reached into her coat pocket and extracted a handful of lint and coins. Picking out the requested amount, she replaced the rest in her pocket.

Thanking the shopkeeper, Harry and Ginny made their way out of the shop and into the street, sketchbook in hand. Squinting, they tried to see in which direction lay the Burrow.

"When did it get so bloody dark out here?" Ginny growled, obviously frustrated.

"Since 'it' decided 'it' was going to storm?" Harry said teasingly.

"Very funny. Seriously though, it's July."

He just shrugged. "Come on, we should hurry," said Harry, pointing out a path that hopefully led to the Burrow.

Silently, they followed the gloomy trail, concentrating sharply on their feet. The air felt horrible: clammy and humid. His shirt stuck damply to his back and he shivered. Harry felt as though he was breathing water. Trying desperately to see his feet, he called out to Ginny.

"Yeah?" she answered, sounding a little out of breath.

"Maybe we should head back. It's too dark to see and I feel like I'm wading through a river."

Ginny scoffed. "Nonsense," she said, her voice ringing out oddly clear in the thick air. "The Burrow is just over the hill."

Just as she said it, Harry realized she was right. They were going up: the ground formed a slight incline, which was steadily growing. As it began to even out again, Harry looked up. He could vaguely see the blurred outline of another person in front of him. Quite unexpectedly, Harry felt his hair stand on end and his palms prickle. He had a brief sensation of trying to breathe through a pillow before the sky split in two.

8

Ginny gasped for breath in the thick air and looked around her in wonder. It was so dark; she could barely see her feet. It was the middle of the afternoon, but seemed darker than the darkest night. She faintly heard Harry suggest heading back, but when she felt the ground beneath her feet begin to slope, she realized they were almost home. Ginny trudged up the incline, feeling like she was walking up a mountain, not just a hill. The ground leveled out as she reached the top and she paused to catch her breath. Looking behind her, she could vaguely see Harry, his shadow outlined against the clouds. She felt a curious tickling sensation on her scalp and her hair abruptly stood up on end. For a moment, everything was still and Ginny stiffened in apprehension. She momentarily remembered reading somewhere that your skin prickling during a storm wasn't a good thing. She was considering warning Harry when she began to feel very warm.

The warmth became warmer and that became burning. She felt like she was rolling on a bed of hot embers; her hair fanned out now like a halo of silver, the tips crackling with energy. Quite suddenly, she could see perfectly. The air was no longer thick and black, but pale and cool: it enveloped her sweltering skin like waves on the rocks. It was both soothing and agonizing. Ginny look into Harry's shocked face, watched as he began to lift his fingers towards her. . . and then there was nothing.

Everything was black. Or rather, there was nothing there to be black. It was empty. Ginny tried to move, to call out, but she had no body and no voice. She felt that if she had eyes she'd be able to see, but she didn't know how to look. There was no time, no movement, no noise, and no light. Confused, Ginny retreated, but to where she could not say. Slowly, she became aware of a change in her surrounding atmosphere. She pondered, not knowing what the change was, but simply that it was there. It was potential. At this sudden realization, Ginny stopped.

That's what it was—potential. She was Nowhere, filled with nothing but potential. . . and her. She was there too; she had to be. Otherwise, there was no way she could be aware of what was going on. She had no voice, no sight, and no feeling, but she had perception. That meant that she was somewhere and that Nowhere didn't exist. Almost immediately, she saw a light. It was faint at first, but grew brighter as it came closer. Gradually, she began to hear a gentle hum, clear and comforting. She detected a faint odor, arriving almost simultaneously with a taste. Both were sweet and subtle, and she doubted she would have noticed had she not previously been deprived of her senses. The light was upon her now, or very nearly. It was almost blinding, but she welcomed it. It contrasted so greatly with her brief imprisonment in Nowhere that she felt herself leaning towards it, like a flower to the sun. She could feel the heat it radiated. As it enveloped her, she fleetingly sympathized with the moth attracted to the flame.

Ginny opened her eyes. In front of her was Harry, his hand raising slowly through the air. It came to rest, palm open to her. Fascinated, she raised her hand to his. They were centimeters apart, palm to palm. He closed the gap. Ginny, now accustomed to the heat, felt another surge of energy. Her body stretched taut; her eyes lifted towards the clouds. Her lips parted, and she let out a small gasp of surprise before she collapsed: darkness welcomed her once again.

8

Harry felt the energy flow through him. It was raw and powerful. His hand burned where he touched Ginny's. The skin felt blistered and he had difficulty stopping himself from wrenching it away. Sparks danced across their palms. He watched as Ginny gasped, her eyes wide. He felt her hand slip as she crumpled, falling from where she'd been suspended in midair. Thunder clapped, ringing in his ears. Reaching forward, he felt her limp body fall into his arms and he lowered her to the ground. She was cold, her face pale, and from the small beads of light that still hung in the air, he could tell that the tips of her hair were blackened and singed. They crackled. He saw sparks twirling downward from the roots of her hair. They reached the charred ends and died.

Panicked, Harry felt for a pulse. He knew it was somewhere on the neck. . . below the jaw maybe. . . there was nothing. He reached for her wrist, putting two fingers up to her cold skin. He waited. Still nothing. Gathering together jumbled memories of a grade five health class, he pinched her nose and held her chin, positioning his mouth over hers. Her lips were icy. He blew determinedly, warm air into cold lungs. Kneeling, he compressed her chest, five times in quick succession. He listened for breathing. Nothing. Lowering his mouth, Harry repeated the sequence. Still nothing. Tears stung his eyes, but he wiped them away hastily. Again he breathed life into her, but to no avail. A few salty drops fell from his eyes. They splashed on her cheeks as he tried once more. Two long breaths, five compressions. He listened for any sound of life. There was none.

He sighed and looked to her face. What he saw would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life. Her eyes were open. He recoiled. She had no pupils. Her normally brown eyes were completely white. They stayed wide open, not blinking, but giving off an ethereal light. He leaned closer. They snapped shut. The charred tips of her hair began to radiate a gentle glow. The glow became stronger until sparks started crackling. Unnoticed by Harry, the tears on her cheeks evaporated. Unnoticed by Harry, the sparks creeping up her hair disappeared. Unnoticed by Harry, her skin warmed and the colour came back to her cheeks. All of this went unnoticed because Harry was too busy staring at her chest. This was because, against all odds, said body part was rising. Slowly but steadily, she was breathing.

8

Her eyes fluttered open and her lips parted, air rushing back into her lungs. She blinked and her eyes tried to focus on the person sitting in front of her. It was blurry, as well as dark, but she thought she could make out round glasses and black hair.

"Harry?" she croaked.

Ginny gathered her will power and shakily extended an arm towards the figure she had dubbed "Harry". He reached for her hand but drew it away when sparks flew between their fingers.

"Ginny?"

She was sure it was Harry now, since he was the only person she knew who said her name like that (oh the joys of ex-crushes). Not having the strength to hold up her hand waiting for him, Ginny let it fall limply to the ground. Harry snatched it up, grabbing it towards him as if to assure himself that she was really there. Smiling wryly, Ginny couldn't resist commenting.

"Missed me?"

Harry coughed and dropped her hand, mumbling something unintelligible. She languidly flipped her hand palm up and cleanly interrupted his babble.

"I'm kidding, but help me up. I can't walk."

"What? Why not?"

"Because I highly doubt my legs will support me."

Right then light flashed in the distance, followed by a clap of thunder. Both teens started. They'd forgotten about the storm.

"Here, give me your arm."

And so they made their way down the hill, Harry stumbling and Ginny holding onto his neck, her legs dragging on the ground.

"Harry. Harry, you have to stop," Ginny said with her teeth clenched.

"Why? What happened? Are you okay?" he said, starting to sound panicked.

"Me? I'm fine considering I just got hit by lightning—or assuming that was lightning. I can't walk, you thought I was dead, and I may well have been, but other than that I'm fine. However, that's not my problem; I just don't think I can hold on any longer. My arms aren't strong enough and I think I may have sprained an ankle, so I can't drag it on the ground anymore," she grimaced. "Here, let me down."

He set her on the ground again and she lay there, trying to decide what to do next.

Harry walked around her, eyes focused on her legs. "Well, can you move your legs at all?"

"I think so. Hold on." She scrunched up her face and concentrated on the lower half of her body. Her left leg made a circle in the dirt, but she winced when she tried to move her right. Pain laced its way up the nerves of her leg and into her head.

"I'm not sure what, but something's wrong with it," Ginny said, squinting to read Harry's expression.

"Er, here, I'll carry you." Rain began to fall. Harry knelt down, putting one hand beneath her knees and one around her back. Ginny weakly gripped his neck and tried to distract herself with the irony of the situation as he slowly stood up. Thankful to have the weight off her ankle, she relaxed and silently vowed to never again criticize his athletic ability.

8

AN: I've been trying to continue this story, but realistically, I'm a lot more mature now than I was when I started this, and my characters are proving to be much more mature in my new stuff than they are in these first few chapters. So I'm brushing it with an aging draught in an attempt at continuity. It'll also help to review all this early stuff since I'm forgetting a couple of the details.

While I'm at it, I'm going to mix up my chapter lengths so that they're all around 5k words, so I'm going to rip all the rest of my chapters off until editing is complete.

I've got almost thirty thousand new words typed up, but with this overhaul and the new semester, I can't guarantee that they'll be posted in the near future. I am going to try for one edited chapter a week, however, and there's going to be a fair amount of new story in it, so if anyone wants to drop me a line about what they think of the changes, I'd be much obliged.

Cheers.


	2. Franchement

_Freedom is not merely the opportunity to do as one pleases; neither is it merely the opportunity to choose between set alternatives. Freedom is, first of all, the chance to formulate the available choices, to argue over them - and then, the opportunity to choose._

_C. Wright Mills_

8

Ginny blinked and her eyes tried to focus on the person sitting in front of her. It was blurry, but she thought she could make out round glasses and black hair. Experiencing an odd sense of déja-vu, she rubbed her eyes and the world slid back into focus.

"Welcome back," quipped Harry, looking slightly amused.

"What?" Ginny felt horribly confused. "How long was I asleep?"

"Only about a day and a half, but it's seemed longer. I had no idea how long it felt waiting for someone to wake up."

Ginny snorted, feeling very well rested. "Yeah, you wouldn't know. Usually it's you in the bed and us waiting anxiously for you to regain consciousness. Did I pass out? The last thing I remember is you carrying me through the front door to the Burrow."

"Yeah, you suddenly went all limp and I thought you'd died again."

"Not a chance. That was a one time stunt, sorry to disappoint."

Harry laughed. "The Medi-wizard fixed you up, but you weren't supposed to do anything strenuous for a few days. That wasn't much of a problem. I gather you're feeling better?"

"Loads, but I'm starving!"

"Here, you can have the last half of my sandwich if you want. I wasn't hungry." He lifted it up and took the newspaper from underneath, folding it a little too quickly and passing her the plate.

Ignoring the food, she glanced suspiciously at the hastily folded paper. "Harry," she said offhandedly, sounding as though she knew he was up to something, "What's in today's paper?"

"Oh, you know. . .." Harry's voice was casual, but his eyes wouldn't meet hers. "The Cannons lost again, Fudge is mucking things up, and there's a new lead singer in the Bellowing Banshees. Nothing interesting."

Ginny's eyes narrowed. "You're a terrible liar, you know."

"I'm what?"

"You couldn't lie your way out of a paper bag."

"I resent that!" Harry tried to look offended and ended up with guilt written all over his face.

"Resent it all you like, now tell me what the Prophet really says."

He sighed heavily and handed it over, surprised at how quickly the mood had darkened.

Words jumped out at her, screaming themselves in a haphazard medley of panic. Tortured, uproar, murdered, Willie MacGibbons, Crutiatus, infants, turmoil, Mungo's, dead, self-inflicted wound, insane, family, slaughtered, fear. Ginny's eyes became blurred once again; she looked up to see Harry staring intensely down at her. His eyes bored into hers and she looked back resolutely.

"This is the War, isn't it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"This is the War." He stated resolutely, and reached out to take her hand.

8

The entire Weasley household seemed to have silently agreed not to mention Ginny's absence, and she was glad for it. After her first year, she knew how stifling it could be to have everyone wondering how fragile you were and when you were going to shatter. Life continued as normal for the most part. Her dad went to work every morning and the twins came for supper every night. Ron finished his homework and Hermione came to stay for the last month of holidays. Much Quidditch was played, and many chess games were fought. Relatively normal. She winced as she thought of the vicious arguments that wafted through her parents' bedroom door. As for the War, everyone seemed determined to out-do each other in their reluctance to mention it. They were holding on to whatever shred of innocence and childhood they could get their hands on. Only the uncomfortable silence at night, when the chess won and the stories told, belied the uneasiness and worry they were all feeling.

At the moment, the Weasley children were outside playing a ragtag game of Quidditch with one team: four chasers and a keeper. The twins were mercilessly pelting Ron, the keeper, with every sort of object imaginable, from apples to mud clots and old rubber balls. Ron was diving left and right, Harry was trying to stay out of range of the assorted projectiles, and Hermione, who'd been coaxed away from her latest book, could be seen wavering twenty feet from the ground, trying desperately to stay on her broom. Ginny was sitting on the ground laughing as she tried and failed to pay attention to her fifth year History of Magic text. When an owl soared straight into George's outstretched hand, it was only Harry's quick reflexes that saved the bird from an untimely journey through the makeshift goal. Untying the letter and allowing the offended owl to take flight, Harry glanced at the name of the addressee and dove down towards Ginny to give her the letter.

Ginny laughed and, setting her dull tome aside, took the envelope from his outstretched hand. He collapsed at her feet and looked at her expectantly. He seemed to be spending a fair bit of time with her lately. It was rather unnerving, she had to admit, after five years of almost total apathy. Every once in a while she would catch him looking sideways at her, a lost expression on his face. She thought it must have something to do with the getting-hit-by-lightning thing, but she couldn't for the life of her figure out why he was still upset by it. Of course, she couldn't remember much of it and he had no doubt retained all his memories of the event, but really, how bad could it be? Shaking her head, she tore it open the letter and took out a folded piece of parchment. Her expression turned from one of amusement to bewilderment, then to astonishment, and he curiously asked whom it was from.

Ginny's eyes were wide and her mouth was hanging open.

"It's an acceptance letter. I've been accepted into the Opasquia School of the Magic Arts. I'd completely forgotten I applied."

She cut off, but the events of last June hung subtly between them like a brick wall. In a falsely cheerful voice, Ginny continued. "You know, they have the most wonderful Charms program. I never thought they'd actually accept me. Oh, I'd love to go." She stared longingly at the paper in her hands.

By this time Hermione, the twins, and an exhausted looking Ron had all landed. They gathered around her and Harry.

"What's that, Ginny?" Hermione was the first to ask.

Ginny laughed nervously. "Um, an acceptance letter?"

Hermione's eyebrows rose. "But we already got our acceptance letters. They came last week. Did they make a mistake and send you two?"

"Er. No. This is from another school."

"Oh, Ginny! You applied for that exchange didn't you! I wanted to, but it was for fifth years only. You're so lucky! I've read all about their Charms program; it's supposed to be the best in North America. They've won all sorts of awards and—"

"Wait a minute, did you say North America?" Ron looked confused.

"As in Far-Away North America?"

"Over the ocean North America?"

"United States, North America?"

"That North America?"

Hermione rolled her eyes at the twins. "No," she said exasperatedly. "Canada, North America."

All three Weasley boys looked nonplussed.

"Oh, honestly. Canada," she said speaking very slowly as if to a small child, "is that not so small country north of the United States."

"Get off it, Hermione, we know what Canada is." Fred looked proud.

"Yeah," said Ron, "they have a Quidditch team. What is it? The Mount Re-all Mayhem. They were big news in the paper a few years ago because they were accused of substituting the Snitch with a flying Tinbit."

George shrugged. "Whatever that is."

"You are going to go, aren't you, Ginny?" Hermione turned to look at the other girl.

Ginny shifted uneasily. "I don't know, there's been a lot of stuff happening here and I'm supposed to do my O.W.L.s this year, not to mention that you would have to play host to some other person we don't know. I don't think it would be a very good idea." Her heart sank even as she said the words, but she knew she was right. Glancing at Harry, she could have sworn that he looked relieved.

Hermione, however, wasn't taking no for an answer. She firmly grabbed Ginny by the arm and marched her up to the house, in the direction of one Molly Weasley.

8

Ginny was euphoric. She was going to Canada. Her parents had thought it a wonderful opportunity and said they would be more than happy to have a Canadian visitor for the last two weeks of holidays. Ginny had a sneaking suspicion that they had ulterior motives for getting her out of the country, but was nevertheless very happy to be going.

Everything was arranged. As it was all paid for by the two participating schools, Ginny would be Flooing to Canada in one week's time. The letter said not to worry about school shopping, as it could all be done when she arrived. She would meet the person she was exchanging with briefly at the other end, before each heading off to their respective hosting families.

Excited and wide awake despite the late hour, she bounded up the winding but familiar stairs. As she neared the second floor, she almost ran into a body that was lying curled over three of the top steps. She leaned down.

"Harry! ... Harry!"

He snuffled and sat bolt upright.

"Ginny?"

"Harry, what are you doing out here? It's after midnight."

"I wanted to talk to you."

Ginny, somewhere deep down, was highly flattered by this comment, but a bit confused as to why it had to be done this late at night.

"Er, well, why not. Come in." She pushed open the door.

As he watched him enter her room, Ginny thought he seemed nervous, taking a clue from his hunched shoulders and the fact that he was walking on the tips of his toes.

Shutting the door behind her, Ginny lit a stub of candle on her bedside table, flopped down on her bed, and gestured at the wicker chair, which was covered in crocheted blankets.

Harry gingerly sat down. When the silence began to get uncomfortable, he opened his mouth to speak.

"So, you're leaving?"

Ginny regarded him carefully, wondering what he was getting at.

"Yes," she said guardedly.

"Where are you going? Besides 'Canada'."

"I'm going to stay in Sask...atchewan. I think that's what it is. Then I'll go to school from there. I don't know exactly where the school is."

Harry was silent for a moment.

"Are you going to be gone all year?"

"Yes. I'll be back at the end of June, but I can come home for Christmas."

"Oh."

"Could I ask you a question?" Ginny felt herself say.

"Sure."

"Why are you so curious?"

Harry looked away, to the shadows dancing in the corner of the room. He mumbled something that sounded like: 'I won't rant and chew gold.'

Ginny gave a small laugh. "Pardon me?"

Harry's hands absently picked at a loose thread in one of the covers he was sitting on. He looked up.

"I don't want you to go."

She sobered immediately. Looking him in the eye, she demanded:

"Why not?"

Harry grimaced and made a noise in his throat, dropping the loose string and clasping his hands together in frustration.

"I don't know."

"You want me to stay here, but you don't know why?" She sounded confused and a little hurt. "That's a little selfish of you, Harry."

He let out a cough of surprise and turned back to her shadowed face. The candlelight was flickering, and it was making his eyes hurt.

"Selfish of me? You're the one who's leaving in the middle of a war!" He sat forward in the chair. "You're the one who's abandoning your family here, while you go off to some preppy school in Canada! What about that person who you're changing places with? They're going to land themselves in what's soon going to be a full out war. A war! Because it's here, Ginny. Voldemort is back, and he has as much power as before, if not more. You're not well, either. You could have a relapse, and we wouldn't be able to help you. What about Dean? What about O.W.L.s?" Harry was quickly loosing steam. "What about the rest of us." The last one wasn't a question, but more of a statement. The candle that had been burning very low dimmed, flickered again, and went out. The two teenagers sat quietly in the darkness, neither one saying anything.

When Ginny answered, her voice was quiet and dangerously calm. She spoke in barely more than a whisper, yet he could hear every word. "I don't know about you, Harry, but I'm not going to sit back while Voldemort dictates my life. I'm sick of sitting around while you or Ron go out and do exciting and heroic things. Sure, I'm not nonexistent to you anymore, but you're still going to be the Gryffindor Trio. You always will be, and I can't change that. I want to do something for myself, something that doesn't entail mini-Dark Lords and dirty great snakes. I'm leaving the country, not the planet. I'm not abandoning you, nor my family. I'll still be there Harry, only an owl away." She stopped for breath, purposefully keeping her voice low. "And- I have noticed that Voldemort's back. In case you've forgotten, we're literally on a first name basis. I know what's out there, and I'm sure whoever comes here knows it, too. I can take O.W.L.s when I get back. And since when am I not well, and why haven't I been informed?" She sounded less menacing now and took a deep breath before asking, "Did I miss anything?"

Harry's chair squeaked under his shifting weight, and he said, "You were hit by lightning, Ginny! It was the scariest thing that's ever happened to me, and that is saying a lot. You died. You had no pulse; your heart had stopped. Your eyes. . . You're different, Ginny. No one else notices, I know, but your eyes, every so often, they do this _thing_. That night, your pupils disappeared. Ever since then, when you're not paying attention, they go dim. I've seen it, Ginny. You're not the same."

Ginny stayed pensively silent. She'd been denying it, even to herself, but she'd noted something similar. If she unfocused her eyes, everything would blur, and then suddenly become much clearer. At night, she could see almost as clearly as she had while she was on the hill. One of the last things she remembered had been her perfectly clear vision, and ever since then the world had seemed slightly dimmer. Grey.

"My _eyes_ go dim?" She reiterated, intentionally making the notion sound as ludicrous as possible. "I'm fine, Harry."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She tried to make her voice sound firm.

They sat in silence once more, and Ginny began wonder if he'd fallen asleep. Then, out of the dark, he spoke up.

"Dean."

Here Ginny was stumped.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well," said Harry exasperatedly, not sounding nearly as annoyed or angry as before, "are you going to keep up a, what do you call it... long-distance relationship?"

"What are you talking about? I've never dated Dean. I've only ever said a few words to him my entire life."

Harry was silent, as if thinking. "But you told Ron at the end of last year that you'd chosen him... I guess I assumed—"

"Oh, Harry, you've got it exactly right. I told Ron. I just made that up to get him riled. I'd even forgotten I said it. No wonder Ron's been grumbling about 'Thomas' under his breath." She trailed off and chuckled. Unknown to her, Harry was smiling too.

"Listen, er, I'm sorry I got mad. I didn't mean to, but I just wanted to know when you were going, and things like that. I seem to have a weak hold on my temper lately. Be careful. I'll miss you, you know." His voice got quiet, so that she had to strain her ears to hear his last words. She smiled lightly and sat up again, unfocusing on his profile before looking away.

"Thanks," she said to the darkness.

8

'Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.'

Ginny was dragging her trunk down the stairs, trying not to fall over and praying that it would stay closed.

Despite the letter saying that she didn't need books, she felt that there were a few that could come in handy. Her clothes were on top of those, and anything else she could fit was packed in the sides. As an afterthought, she'd packed the flat silver box her dad had given her. It was wedged firmly between Hexes And How To Use Them and a periwinkle Weasley jumper.

'Ka Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.'

"Ginny!" her mum hollered up the stairs. "Are you ready? You've got about ten minutes!"

Turning to look toward the direction her mother's voice came from, Ginny took her eyes off the trunk; in the split second that it was unmonitored, it slipped off edge of the step and hit Ginny around the backs of her knees. Both landed in a very undignified heap at the bottom. Picking herself up, Ginny straightened her back, trying not to wince, and glanced up at her mum, who was looking on in bewilderment.

"I'm ready." Ginny gave her mum a pained look.

Molly gave Ginny a watery smile. "I'm so proud of you, dear. You're so lucky to have a chance like this. Your father and I will miss you terribly."

Ginny walked into her Mum's warm embrace and stood there, breathing in the comforting smell of the Burrow. "Love you," she whispered.

"So much."

The front door screeched open, and five teenagers walked through.

"Are you leaving?" George asked, directing the question at his sister.

"Yeah," Ginny grinned.

"Without hugs?" Fred faked a hurt expression.

"Alas, what have we done to deserve such treatment!"

The twins burst into crocodile tears and clutched each other for support.

Laughing, Ginny held open her arms. "Come here, you twits."

Looking delighted, Fred twirled her around, followed en suite by George.

"Farewell, my dear sister."

"Don't break too many hearts."

"Enjoy yourself."

"Laugh at their accents."

"Ask them to say about."

"And get into lots of trouble."

George sighed wistfully, and Fred added, "Just think. The Weasleys are going international. I'm so proud."

Ginny laughed again and looked around, a little dizzy. Spotting another redhead, she threw her arms around his neck.

"G'bye, Ron."

Next, her bushy-haired friend.

"Write me, Hermione."

She turned and, before she could talk herself out of it, latched her arms around Harry's neck.

"I'll miss you, too," she whispered so only he could hear.

8

Harry knew he was blushing. He could feel his cheeks heating up. The skin under her bare arms felt like it was burning, and he almost swore he could see sparks. Mumbling a quick response, he stepped away, and she backed into the fireplace. Taking a handful of Floo powder, she called in a clear voice:

"The Inglenook, Canada."

8

Ginny dizzily watched the grates fly past. Everything was a blur of colour, and her trunk kept banging against her knees: she was sure she'd have bruises later. Tightening her grip on the handle, she flew onwards, jerking violently to the left and upwards. Marking her destination, she hurtled through the fire at the other end and staggered to regain her balance.

An arm reached out and grabbed her shoulder, steadying her. Ginny looked up. She was standing in a sitting room with a low ceiling and wicker couches. The furniture was draped with throws of every colour and the floor covered with a rag rug of similar affectation. Standing on this rug was a girl of diminutive stature, with large brown eyes and a mass of frizzy brown hair. She was grinning.

"Hey. I'm Frank."

The girl's voice was full of good humour, but reverberated with an odd twang. Momentarily wondering if she'd been sent to America by mistake, Ginny shook the outstretched hand.

"Hello. I'm Ginny Weasley. You're exchanging with me?"

The other girl sat down on a giant blue suitcase, ready to go. "Yep. I warn you though, if you're going to survive in my family for a while, do not consume anything my sister gives you. I once spent a month with six fingers on my right hand because of her." She gave Ginny a mock-stern look. "Choose not to heed this warning and don't come crying to me about it."

Ginny smiled back. "And you think you've got it tough? I have twin brothers who live to play pranks, one who's a chess genius and best friends with Harry Potter, one who wants to be Minister for Magic, one who trains dragons, and one who's a cursebreaker for Gringotts. Have fun."

Frank snorted. "Six? Wow. That's impressive. Who's Harry Potter?"

Ginny stared. "Seriously?"

"Um, yeah?"

Floored, she shook her head. "No one important. You'll meet him. He lives at our house for about a month during the summer." Harry, she thought, was going to be in for a treat.

"Awesome. Are they all older than you?"

"Yeah. But Ron's only older by a year. So's Harry. Uh, you should go. They'll be expecting you back at the Burrow. Watch out for the twins, and when you get to Hogwarts, do not get on the bad side of Professor Snape. It could be hazardous to your health."

"Okay," she laughed. "I'll try to remember. Say hello to Pascale for me, you'll be going to visit her next week sometime. She's a riot." She chuckled again before turning to the kitchen and yelling, "Mum! I'm leaving!"

The door opened, and a slim woman with frizzy blond hair walked in, accompanied by a girl who looked absolutely nothing like her. The new girl had short spiky hair, dyed deep purple, and was, Ginny guessed, approximately the same height as she was. The older woman wrapped her arms around her daughter and whispered something in her ear. Frank laughed and stepped into the fire, dragging her over-sized luggage by the handle. Her mother handed her a paper packet. She ripped it open and dumped the contents out around her feet. She looked up one last time and winked at Ginny.

"The Burrow."

The room went quiet, and as the ash in the giant fireplace settled, Ginny felt suddenly shy. Her only link to this family had just left, and she was going to spend the next two weeks with complete strangers. She turned around to face Frank's mother, twisting the hem of her shirt nervously.

"Hello." The woman extended her hand. "I'm Frank's mum, Alison Brooks, but you can call me Alison. This is Charlotte, and Jason is at a friend's." She shook Ginny's hand warmly and continued. "You can sleep in Frank's room. It's at the top of the stairs, up the ladder, and the bathroom is on the floor below, first door to the right."

She stopped. Ginny wondered if she was supposed to say something.

"You're very welcome here, please make yourself at home. Charlotte will help you to your room. I'll be in the kitchen if you want something."

She smiled brightly and swished out of the room, her long crinkled skirt blooming out like a sail. Ginny nervously watched the door swing shut behind her.

Feeling the other girl's eyes on her, she turned to look at her. She was wearing a tight green tank-top over a brown shirt. Red leggings were covered by a long skirt that seemed to be made entirely of patches. Her socks were striped pink and green and clashed oddly with her hair. She looked, Ginny thought amusedly, like one of Dumbledore's ridiculously-coloured and intentionally clashing outfits. In fact, she was sure she'd seen those same pink and green stripes on his robes for the Yule ball.

The girl's hands were on her hips, and she appeared to be sizing Ginny up. Feeling a teensy bit self-conscious under the girl's scrutiny, Ginny walked up to her.

"Er, hey."

The girl looked up in surprise, as if she hadn't expected Ginny to be so forward. Ginny found that odd; she was going to be living with her for the next two weeks. Suddenly, the girl grinned and stuck out her hand.

"I'm Charles. Call me Charlotte and be prepared to face my wrath."

Ginny smiled, relieved that she'd passed whatever sort of test that had been, and shook her hand.

"Ginny."

"C'mon, it's a long way up."

Taking hold of one end of Ginny's trunk and motioning for her to take the other one, Charles started up the stairs. Unable to prevent herself, Ginny found her head turning every which way as she took in her surroundings. The floors were mostly hardwood, with the occasional board that had obviously been replaced. Ginny smiled suddenly, as she walked over a lurid violet one. She felt comforted, in a way this house reminded her of the Burrow: mostly warm and comfortable but just the slightest bit eccentric. On the first landing, they came out into a short hallway with four doors set across from one another in pairs. Three of them were shut, but the fourth was open a crack, and an awful plinking on what must have been a piano filtered through. She winced at the sound and Charles faltered in her steps.

'Oh, I almost forgot! We have boarders!'

'Ah.' Not sure what to make of this statement. Ginny chose to remain silent.

Correctly interpreting Ginny's lack of speech, Charles elaborated.

'Well, we have so many rooms, and with only the fours of us, we started renting out the extra ones. Our current boarders are fairly quiet, but you'll see them around from time to time.' They continued up the stairs. "Or, I suppose, you'll see them for the next week or so, because that's when we begin our journey north. And by journey I mean car ride. But don't fret-" Charles emphasized the word dramatically "-for it shall be a jolly good time."

As they reached the second flight of steps, the stairs started to turn, winding upwards. When they finally reached the top of what Ginny figured must be six or seven stories, Charles stopped on the landing. There was no door, and Ginny wondered how she was going to sleep up here. Hadn't Alison said something about a ladder? Charles dropped her end of the trunk and reached up, pulling on the rope dangling from the ceiling. Somewhere above them, a hatch opened and a rope ladder fell down, stopping just short of the ground.

"That's really cool."

Charles grinned. "Cool, yes, but it's a pain to bring anything up or down. Climb up and send down the rope at the top, won't you? Your trunk is going to be impossible otherwise."

Ginny gave a small smile and reached up to the rungs. Two seconds later, she was flat on her back, staring up at the trap door. Charles was laughing uncontrollably. Tears were leaking from the corners of her eyes, and she was clutching the banister for support. Ginny waited sourly for her to calm down.

Charles finally regained control of her voice and straightened up.

"Didn't Frank warn you not to touch anything I gave you? She really is getting careless in her old age. Sorry about that," she said, chuckling and offering Ginny a hand up,"but the look on your face when the ladder came down was just priceless."

Ginny looked and saw that the ladder was lying on the ground around her. It must not have been attached at the top. It was a prank that even she hadn't expected-- usually Fred and George were a little more flamboyant. Smiling a little herself now, she looked around for other means with which to enter the room. She saw none.

"How do I get up there then?" she asked, more than a little confused.

"What do you think?" Charles pointed to the hole with her index finger. "Magic."

Ginny raised her eyebrows.

Charles grinned maniacally. She stomped the floor twice and ejaculated: "Gobbledegook."

A wooden ladder slid up from another hatch in the floor.

Warily this time, Ginny climbed the solid ladder. It held and sure enough, there was a rope coiled on the floor beside the hole, which she shoved ungracefully over the side.

"Thanks," came the voice of Charles.

8

Frank slipped sideways out of the fire and coughed as ashes flew around her. She shook her hair and was rewarded with a small black snowfall. She looked up. The first person she saw was a short woman with curly gray-streaked red hair. Beside her stood two red haired young men, who looked as though they were identical to the last freckle. There was another redhead standing next to them. Beside him was a bushy haired girl and a shorter boy with round black glasses. The twins were the first to speak.

"Hello, there."

"How do you do?"

"Really grand—"

"Remarkable to finally—"

"We've heard so much about you."

"Welcome to our humble home."

They bowed simultaneously and each took a hand, shaking it extravagantly up and down. She grinned mischievously and turned to look at Fred.

"Hi."

She looked at George.

"Marvelous."

She looked to the other twin again and repeated the action.

"Wonderful."

"My sentiments exactly."

"The same could be said here."

"Thank you."

And she proceeded to pump their hands up and down in a fashion similar to their previous efforts.

The twins were momentarily stunned, and Frank raised her eyebrows innocently.

"I'm Frank. Nice to meet you."

"Fred—"

"George."

She looked expectantly at the other teens.

"I'm Hermione, lovely to—"

"Ron, and that was bloody brilliant! I mean, it's not every day those two end up speechless. Well done! Canada, was it?"

"Yeah. Saskatchewan. And you are?"

She looked to the black-haired boy.

"Er, Harry."

"Oh, you're Harry Potter, aren't you?"

8

Harry inwardly groaned. He slouched, mentally willing his bangs to stay in place, and looked her in the eye.

"Yeah, yeah I am."

"Pleased to meet you," she said, turning and introducing herself to Mrs. Weasley.

Harry was shocked. Her eyes hadn't even made the minutest flick toward his scar. It was as though she'd never heard of him!

He glanced at Hermione. She'd noticed it too, and her lips were slightly raised at the corners. She met his eyes and shrugged.

Looking back at the new girl, Frank, Harry saw her in a new light. Her green knee-high socks and blue-checkered skirt seemed to sing with happiness. Her loose red shirt and the black sweater tied around her waist seemed innocent and childlike. Her frizzy hair was almost alive with energy. For a moment, Harry was caught up in how different she was, how carefree. Unaware of the extent to which he was embellishing and hyperbolizing, Harry had idealistically convinced that she would have never had to live with the death of loved ones, or the betrayal of close friends. In fact, if there was one safe place, somewhere Voldemort would completely overlook, he knew where it would be. He smiled, and thought that Canada might not be such a bad place for Ginny after all.

8

AN: I've been trying to continue this story, but realistically, I'm a lot more mature now than I was when I started this, and my characters are proving to be much more mature in my new stuff than they are in these first few chapters. So I'm brushing it with an aging draught in an attempt at continuity. It'll also help to review all this early stuff since I'm forgetting a couple of the details.

While I'm at it, I'm going to mix up my chapter lengths so that they're all around 5k words, so I'm going to rip all the rest of my chapters off until editing is complete.

I've got almost thirty thousand new words typed up, but with this overhaul and the new semester, I can't guarantee that they'll be posted in the near future. I am going to try for one edited chapter a week, however, and there's going to be a fair amount of new story in it, so if anyone wants to drop me a line about what they think of the changes, I'd be much obliged.

Cheers.

AN.2: Whatever you do, don't mention the war.


	3. Thirteenth

_Word: thir·teen_

_Function: noun_

_Etymology: Middle English thyrtene, from thrittene, adjective, from Old English thrEotIne; akin to Old English tIen ten_

_Definition: Thirteen (13) is the natural natural number following 12 and preceding 14._

_Modern day witches have reclaimed the number 13 as a lucky and significant number. This may be similar to witches reclaiming other previously negative terms and ideas associated with witchcraft, such as black cats, brooms, and even the term witch itself. This comes from Old English wicce, which is also the root for 'wicked'._

_-from M-W and Wikipedia_

8

"Okay," said Charles, diving to catch the Chocolate Frog Ginny had given her. They had been up here for a few hours and the clock on the night stand read eleven thirty. Ginny momentarily marveled that she could so easily go back seven hours and relive time she'd already used. In theory, if the Floo connections were right, she could simply repeat an entire day by Flooing to various locations around the world. Just so long as she didn't want to go back to whereever she started. "So, Europe is in the middle of a war, and that's where we just sent my sister?"

"I'm so sorry, I figured you'd know! It's like knowing who Harry Potter is; it's not really something people talk about, they just know."

"Relax, I'm not mad or anything. It's not like this Voldie-guy cares about some exchange girl from somewhere he can't even pronounce. What are these things again?"

Ginny sighed, not sure whether to be relieved at Charles' acceptance or more worried. "They're Chocolate Frogs. People try to collect the cards. Ron's got a couple hundred, I swear."

"All right," said Charles, sucking chocolate off her teeth. "So, I got Dymphna Furmage? Wow, what a horrible name. You'd think that her parents could have come up with anything better!" She set the card down and picked up another frog off the bed.

Ginny folded her legs. She bounced slightly on the springy mattress and said, "So, why do you call yourself Charles?"

"Think about it. Do I look like a 'Charlotte' to you?" She made a dramatic flourish with her free arm.

Ginny laughed. "No, I guess not. What about Frank?"

"Oh, her real name is Francis, but she can't stand it, so she shortened it. It's funny sometimes, because when Mum tells someone her kids' names are Charles, Frank, and Jason, people always assume that we're all boys. I guess that's why she calls me Charlotte." She wrinkled her nose. "She still calls Frank 'Frank' though. I don't know why. Probably because she feels sorry for naming her Francis in the first place. D'you want to go eat?"

"What?"

"Lunch." Charles raised her eyebrows.

In truth Ginny had eaten lunch several hours ago, but caught slightly off guard by the abrupt change of topic she politely assented.

"Great, I'm starved; come on."

The door to the kitchen banged shut behind them.

"Oh, you're just in time."

Alison Brooks carefully maneuvered her way around the floating island in the center of the room. Grilled cheese sandwiches and pickles lay peacefully on blue ceramic plates. "I thought it might be nice if you took them outside. It's a gorgeous day out. I'm sure Ginny wouldn't mind a look around the neighbourhood a bit later, so I left some money for ice cream on the counter. I've got to run, I was supposed to meet Dorris at one-thirty, and I'm already ten minutes late." She grabbed her purse and slid her feet into what looked like sandals made out of cork. "Enjoy your lunch, and be home in time for supper," she called, her voice abruptly becoming muffled as the screen door slammed behind her. Ginny was stuck by both the similarities and vast difference between Alison and her own mother. Both seemed at home in the kitchen and nearly obsessive about ensuring that their children were provided for, but whereas Molly Weasley ruled over her house-hold with an iron fist, Frank and Charles' mum seemed to do it as an afterthought, or a habit. Her flighty approach to responsibilities and commitments didn't really lower her in Ginny's estimation, but it did make her appreciate her own mother's stern determination.

"Excellent," crowed Charles. "Come on, grab a napkin and your food." She stuffed the strange looking coins in one of her many patches, and Ginny wondered idly how many others doubled as pockets. "We're going out."

Complying, Ginny took her grilled cheese and wrapped it in the paper, then jogged to catch up with the other girl. She fell easily into step beside her and took a big bite of her sandwich. It was nice here, she decided, looking around. There were a lot of trees, and the Brooks' garden was alive with menacing-looking 'flowers'. From the outside, their house was tall and covered completely in brick. It had several balconies and large windows that looked like they could be opened to climb onto the roof. The houses beside it looked relatively normal, but she could see a vibrant orange one down the street and pointed it out.

"Oh, yeah," Charles said, nodding through a mouthful of food. "That's another wizarding one. The best thing is, though, that the people around here don't notice anything unusual, because they're all so unusual themselves. You should see the guy at the end of the block. He wears shorts all year 'round, and always carries this walking stick that he swings around like a baton. There's another woman who lives with her husband in that house there—" she pointed to a green stucco house "—and they don't use electricity. At all. I think they're chemists, because there's always odd smells and explosions coming from their house, at all hours of the day. Weird, though, even for Drifters."

Ginny frowned at her references, and then asked about the strangest of them. "Drifters?"

"I don't believe this," Charles rolled her eyes. "Non-Magic people. Please tell me you have those in Britain."

"Oh, yeah," Ginny grinned lopsidedly, understanding, "We call them Muggles, though."

Charles screwed up her face. "That is one of the strangest things I have ever heard, and believe me, when you live in Cathedral, that is saying a lot."

Ginny decided to let the Cathedral one drop. She figured she'd find out soon enough. Instead she asked, "So, where are we going?"

Charles didn't say anything. Swiftly, she walked around the corner and disappeared.

Panicked, Ginny ran forward, and saw Charles leaning against the wall on the other side of the bush. She had a wide grin on her face.

"Did you bring your wand?"

Ginny pulled it out, hazelwood, twelve and a half inches.

Charles' eyes bugged out. "Holy man! It's wood! That's so... cliche." She reached into another patch on her skirt, pulling out what looked like a rod of glass. It was shorter than Ginny's, but about the same width. Inside the wand, small glowing particles of purple floated languidly.

"That's insane! I thought they only had wooden wands in fairy tales. Are they all like that where you're from?"

Ginny nodded, floored by the abnormality of a glass wand.

"Awesome, can I try some spells with it later?"

"Er, sure."

"Great, this way."

Smiling simply, she turned to a mural that Ginny hadn't even seen before she'd pointed it out. It looked like a road with a cow standing in the center of it. The cow had a sign for a head, and Charles inserted her wand into the blank space where Ginny assumed it's left nostril might have been. The cow wiggled and made a noise like a muffled sneeze.

The road on the wall suddenly lengthened, and seemed to grow depth and substance. The cow walked aside and Charles extravagantly gestured her forward.

"This, my transoceanic friend, is Thirteenth Avenue."

The only thing Ginny could possibly compare it to was Diagon Alley. It was crowded with people, and good-natured banter flew back and forth like lightning. There were people wearing long, flowing dresses, and some in Muggle clothes. Others wore standard wizard robes, but even more wore outfits so eccentric that Dumbledore would have looked respectable, normal, and rule-abiding beside them. Many had brightly colored hair and piercings in odd places, and Ginny did a double take as she realized that most every one seemed to be young. There were two older women in baggy robes sipping chocolate milkshakes on a table in front of a shop a shop that read 'De la Crème', but aside from them and a man who looked very lost indeed, they all seemed to be under twenty-five. Teenagers chatted under an awning to her left, a young woman read a dusty tome in the window of a café, and a pair of twins were running toward Ginny like their lives depended on it.

Doing another double take, she stepped out of their way to avoid a collision; the twins ran head-long into Charles. Twirling her about, they set her down and turned to Ginny. Their faces were almost identical, and if one had not had longer hair than the other, Ginny was sure they could have been mistaken for the same person. They were eyeing her critically, and the one with shorter hair spoke.

"Dominic," he said. "You're Frank's switch?"

"Looks like it," said the one with longer hair, who Ginny now realized was a girl. Her voice was low, like her brother's, but it rang distinctly feminine. "Isabella."

Dominic smirked. "Although, if you call her that, she'll fry you."

His sister elbowed him and, smiling, held out her hand. Ginny, wondering why everyone in Canada seemed to dislike their given names, shook it. "Ginny."

"Dom."

"Izzie."

"Nice to meet you."

The twins laughed.

"So," said Charles, "What do we think of her?"

They grinned mischievously, and began to circle her like Snape after he'd caught Harry doing something against the rules. Only a little less sinister. Or batlike.

"I love the hair," was Izzie's first comment. She eyed it enviously, fingering her own blue-black locks. "She'll have to come clothes shopping."

Ginny felt her cheeks redden. She was wearing a simple charcoal grey skirt and a pale yellow blouse. It was her favorite outfit, and she thought it looked really good. It was also one of the few things she owned that wasn't second-hand.

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that!" Izzie looked genuinely sorry. "But if you're going to live here for a while, you can hardly not go shopping. It would be just short of criminal!"

Dominic stopped and looked at her profile. "Intelligent."

Izzie narrowed her eyes shrwedly. "Quick, agile."

"Kind."

"Red."

"Clever."

"Determined."

"Freckled."

"Fiesty."

"Short."

Ginny started and stuck out her tongue at Dominic. He laughed. "How did we do?"

Ginny pretended to think it over. "Despite your blatant use of ginger stereotypes... I'd give you a pass."

"Good enough for me," and Dom reached over and linked his arm through hers, Izzie and Charles copying him on her other side. And so it was that they made their way down 13th Avenue, a human chain, out to terrorize the ice cream parlour.

8

Charles laughed at a joke Izzie made. Something about dogs and plungers. Everything was feeling a little fuzzy. She was perfectly content. Warm, laying down on the grass in the shade. There was a Drifter school to their right, but no one was there. She was full to the brim with cucumber ice cream, and surrounded with good company. She'd met Izzie and Dom at this very park when she was four. When they were eleven, all three of them had been accepted into Opasquia and they'd been inseparable ever since. Well, the four of them if you included Frank, and technically five if you included Pascale. Which she usually did. Ginny giggled hysterically. Charles smiled. Ginny was pretty cool. Despite her normal appearance, she could be pretty wild. Never before had Charles met anyone who would try the chocolate jalapeno ice cream.

Stretching, Dom sat up. "Come on Iz. We've got to go. Everett's coming for supper and Mum wants us home before then."

Groaning, Izzie reluctantly stood. "Coming."

She looked at Charles and Ginny. "We'll see you tomorrow morning? It's supposed to be cloudy but no chance of a storm. Perfect for shopping!"

Charles rolled her eyes, but Ginny spoke up. "Sure."

The twins grinned.

"Later." They waved, and started across the grass.

Ginny got up and brushed the grass off her skirt. "Um, Charles." She seemed nervous. "The letter said that I had some money that I could spend on school stuff. Where do I erm—get it?" She'd gone pink in the cheeks.

The other girl frowned. "Hm. I don't know. Maybe Gringott's?"

Ginny's eyes lit up. "You've got a Gringott's? Oh, thank Merlin! At least some things don't change. Can we go now? When are we supposed to be back?"

Charles laughed. "Good to know you haven't switched planets, is it? We can go now, but we only have an hour. Mum won't be finished supper for another hour and a bit, but she said she wanted us back before it's time to eat." She stood up and plucked a stray blade of grass out of her hair. Motioning for Ginny to follow her, she picked her way across the field and over the fence. She stopped and smiled as she saw Ginny trying to maneuver her way over the fence in a skirt.

Ginny saw her looking and cursed. "Bugger. I need some of those things you've got underneath your skirt. Bloody useful by the looks of them!"

Charles grinned at Ginny's reference to her leggings. "Well we are going shopping tomorrow..." she trailed off.

"I'm sold. Look away for a sec. It's been awhile since I've scaled a fence, and I'm afraid my skills are a little rusty."

Charles obligingly spun on the spot, smirking into the foliage. There was a tearing sound, and a thump. Turning back around, she saw Ginny lying in a pile of arms and legs with a flash of white underwear.

Muttering a few choice words, Ginny sat up, blushing furiously, and tugged on the torn hem of her skirt in a useless attempt to regain some of her dignity.

Charles sympathetically clucked her tongue. "Here, let me. No really, I alter almost all of my clothes." She reached inside a long teal patch in her skirt, and felt around for her wand. Drawing it out, she twirled it in the air. This was kids' stuff. Or, rather, Level One Tactiles. The hem came off completely and hung suspended. Sweeping her wand downwards, she watched critically as the skirt lengthened slightly to its original length, and split modestly up one side to allow for greater mobility. Another swish, and the hem widened and pocketed itself - literally - on the left side of the skirt. With a flourish she returned her wand, and looked appraisingly at her work.

Ginny smiled, and breathed in relief. "Awesome. I love the pocket. Thanks. Won't you get in trouble for doing magic on the holidays?"

"What? Why would I?" Was that another of those weird British things?

"I would. We're not allowed to do magic outside of school until we're of age." She wrinkled her nose in distaste.

"Ooh. Bummer. Though now that you're here, I'm sure they wouldn't mind..." Ginny's smiled widened wickedly at Charles' suggestion. And in all likelihood, whatever tracking system they used to enforce that ridiculous rule probably wouldn't function at this range.

She gestured for Ginny to follow and started walking. Still smiling, Ginny hurried to catch up. "So, what's this place?" She gesticulated to the immense stone building on their right. It was about forty feet high, and had two silver spires rising on either side.

Charles glanced up, knowing already what she was asking. "That's our neighbourhood's namesake. The Cathedral itself. It's a building devoted to their god. They only have one. Weird, eh?" In truth, she knew quite a bit more about it than that, but all the years she spent in a Drifter's Catholic elementary school weren't really a pertinent topic for conversation. Especially since the British girl would likely have very little idea what she was talking about.

"Yeah," Ginny agreed, looking back over her shoulder at the window placed in the front of the building. It was a rose window, and part of the reason why Charles liked the building. She may not appreciate their dogma, but damn if they didn't have beautiful churches. The two girls turned left at the ice cream parlour. Charles pointed it out.

"That store is exactly opposite the one in the magical side of the Avenue. The Drifters have all sorts of weird flavours. You should see them. Stuff like Rocky Road, and Tiger Tiger. I've never tried any of it: sounds gross."

They walked past the coffee shop, and stopped once again in front of the cow. She could remember dimly a time when the mural hadn't been here, but she couldn't for the life of her recall how people got into the Avenue without it. Charles shrugged. "You want to try?"

G

Ginny bit her lip, still feeling apprehensive about using magic over the summer. Summoning her resolve, she took out her wand, and gently prodded the sign where its head should have been. It wiggled, and Ginny moved her wand slightly more to the right. Sure enough, the cow gave a sneeze, and Thirteenth Avenue spread out before them once again.

Ginny looked longingly into the window of a store selling shoes of all varieties. From shoes so small, she doubted they would fit onto her pinkie, to clunky boots like Charles was wearing, Ginny thought she'd love to take a look in there. Shoes were one of those silly feminine pleasures that she was almost ashamed to admit to, and rarely got to indulge in. Tearing her eyes away, she focused instead on another stone building in their path. They walked up the front steps and Ginny smiled at seeing a familiar warning notice on the front door. They entered and Charles led her up to a desk under the sign 'International Affairs'. The Goblin at the desk sneered down at Ginny.

"How can I help you?" His voice was sugary and mocking. Charles stepped up.

"We'll need to see any and all letters and documents set aside for Miss Ginny Weasley." Her voice was cold and she was glaring at the creature. "Now."

Ginny looked at her new friend in shock. The goblin disappeared and Charles turned back, her scorn now focused on Ginny. She unconsciously flinched. Charles' glare dropped.

"Oh, sorry." She looked sincerely apologetic. "You have to be really firm with goblins. Nasty bunch. It didn't used to be like this, but the ones we had before went on strike and we got transfers from Portugal or somewhere. They'll rob you blind if they think they can. Can't go against a direct order though. I don't know why no one ever complains anymore. I bet the Goblins in Britain are pleasant as anything. Well, pleasant for a Goblin." The Goblin returned and thrust two sealed envelopes over the counter. Then it disappeared again without a word.

Ginny picked up the letters and carried them outside into the sunlight. Sitting down on the steps, she reflected that the bank in Diagon Alley was at least twice this size. Was it the main branch? It had never occurred to her to ask. Slitting open the first envelope, she pulled out a letter. Charles sat down beside her.

_Miss Weasley,_

_Enclosed is the chip to your account. Number two hundred forty-seven. Have a good summer; term begins on September first._

_Signed,_

_Adelaide Wharry_

_Head of Opasquia School of the Magic Arts, President of the Guild of Guises, Order of Merlin Second Class_

Ginny dumped the envelope out into her hand. A small piece of blue glass fell into her palm.

"What's this?"

"That's the chip to your account. You plug it into the security pad. Don't tell me you've never heard of these."

Ginny fingered the irregular bumps along the edge of the 'chip', and shook her head.

"Hm." Charles looked skeptical. "Britain sure is weird. Open the next one."

Ginny broke the seal and drew out a list. "School supplies."

Charles blinked and stood up. "Boring. Let's go check out your account."

She led the way, once again, into the building. Walking past the desks this time, she stopped in front of an elevator. Ginny remembered the lift from the Ministry. Charles pressed a button, and the glass doors slid open. She grinned, "All aboard."

Ginny followed her into the elevator. The doors shut behind them, and Charles spoke clearly into the air. "Number two hundred forty-seven."

The floor shuddered, and the glass box descended into the earth. Disappearing below ground, Ginny watched as everything from earthworms, to bicycles, to gold doors flashed past. Careening to a halt, Ginny queasily stepped out of the now still elevator. In front of her lay a door with a sliver plaque reading '247'. Charles pointed below the plaque. A grey pad was set into the wall. She yawned. "Insert your chip."

Ginny dug the blue piece of glass out of her newly made pocket. She held it up to the grey stuff, wondering where it was supposed to go. There wasn't a slot or anything. As if there was something on the other side sucking it in, the blue chip disappeared into the grey matter. Ginny prodded it with her finger. It felt like jelly. Squishy. The 'Grey Jelly' as she dubbed it, contracted around her finger, like someone was sucking on the first digit. Disgusted Ginny quickly withdrew her hand. A tinkling sound reached her ears, like bells, and the door in front of her shimmered and disappeared.

8

Ron yawned. He yawned again and stretched, but in the "I've just had three helpings of a delicious meal" kind of way, and not in the "I'm about to fall asleep on my pie" kind of way, the latter of which was her current problem. Frank blinked blearily. She suddenly felt awfully tired. They'd just finished supper, but she felt like a ton of bricks. Rolling her eyeballs, she tried to stay awake. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she recalled that she should not be the tired one, and it should feel like the middle of the afternoon... She tried to remember reading something about traveling through time zones, and whether or not it affected one's sleepiness in odd and unusual ways, but quickly stopped when her brain complained emphatically. Her brow furrowed when a rather curious idea popped into her train of thought, but she dismissed it, as she was too tired to think out the complications. Yes, her grey matter was thoroughly exhausted, and nothing she could think of would apparently convince it otherwise. The Weasleys were still wide-awake, and Harry looked much happier than he had when she'd come in - either because of the enormous amount of food he'd ingested, or the double helping of pie he'd been served. Her own stomach complained lackadaisically at the thought of more food. She was stuffed. Hermione and Fred were arguing heatedly about wizard's rights to test potions on Flobberworms, and Harry, Ron, George and Mr. Weasley were enthusiastically debating Puddlemere's chances in the next world cup. Frank had been listening interestedly until just a few moments ago when Ron had yawned. It was all his fault for reminding her to be tired. She looked up, and had to work at focusing her eyes. Mrs. Weasley swam into view. She gave her a small smile. Frank returned it, though she was soon overcome with a yawning fit. Concerned, Mrs. Weasley glanced at the clock.

"Oh, my! It's almost ten and you look asleep on your feet. Hermione, will you be a dear and help Francis to bed. She doesn't look able to find her way anywhere, let alone up two flights of stairs. No, don't worry, the boys can clean up." She added this last sentence amid Hermione's polite protests, and her sons looked up startled.

"What?" said Ron, looking like nothing his mother had to stay would be minutely more interesting than what he was currently talking about.

Frank inwardly marveled at how many things she could read off his face. Then she remembered how sleepy she was, and figured she must be hallucinating.

"Dishes." His mother said firmly.

The twins groaned in unison, standing up. "Go on Harry. Get out while you still can. There's no use pleading at this stage. Save yourself."

"Thanks, but I don't mind helping." Harry pushed his chair back, and started gathering dirty plates.

The three red-heads turned to stare at him. Ron's jaw was hanging in the general vicinity of his knees, and Fred's eyes looked in danger of falling out of his skull.

Hermione took Frank's arm and rolled her eyes at their antics. "Oh honestly." She said, bumping Ron on the back of the head as she stood up. "It wouldn't kill you to do some work voluntarily for once."

Fred and George turned their incredulous looks on her, but she missed them, as she was too busy stopping Frank from walking into a wall.

G

The redheads grumbled, dragging themselves towards the kitchen, and Mrs. Weasley turned around to locate the missing male. Ah ha, she caught the tiptoeing person who had been sneaking off in her peripheral vision in a shrewd glare.

"Arthur!"

"Yes Molly?" The guilty man tried his best to put on an air of good intentions. He failed miserably.

Smiling, his wife sidled up to him and looked up through her lashes. Looking confused, as if he'd misread the warning signs, he leaned down to kiss her. She put up a hand and his lips met her fingers.

"You wouldn't have happened to be going anywhere important now, would you?"

"Of course not." He wouldn't meet her gaze.

"Good. Because there are dishes to be done, you know."

He blinked. "Er, right."

There was a crash from the kitchen and Molly winced.

"I got it!" Came a holler, followed by an unnecessarily loud "Reparo."

She groaned and buried her head in her husband's shoulder.

He wrapped his arms around her, and she took another shuddering breath. "I can't do it Arthur. I can't pretend everything is normal when it's so obviously not. I don't care that the Burrow now has more charms and wards than Hogwarts, I don't care about the protection spells, and I don't give a damn about whatever the Ministry says. You-Know-Who is as strong as he ever was, and we've already learned that it doesn't take magic for them to get hurt." She looked up, her expression frustrated. "Lightning Arthur! That kind of power...it's a wonder she's not cooked and crispy 'round the edges!"

He tightened his arms around her. "I am glad that she's gone away for a year though. Canada is one of the safest places there is, and somewhere no one would care to look. Although, I can't imagine what Francis' parents were thinking. Frank? What an awful name. We're in the middle of a war. This is no place to send an innocent school girl." She smiled ruefully. "You know it's a pity that they couldn't all go. I would feel so much better, knowing that they were safe. And poor Harry, what with Sirius, and the lightning—"

"Molly."

"I have no idea how Dumbledore thinks that he's all right. His own family—"

"Molly."

"He's covering it up well, but it's obvious that he feels lonely. Ron and Hermione have been spending so much time together—they'd make such a nice couple—but I think he's been feeling left out. He spent all that time with Ginny while she was unconscious and afterwards, but since then..." She trailed off, realizing that she'd been rambling. She felt anxious and uneasy and afraid. She instinctively pressed closer to her husband.

"I'm just so worried."

"I know." He said soothingly leaning his chin on the top of her head. "So am I."

She sighed, breathing in his comforting, familiar smell. "Thank-you."

He hugged her tighter. "You know," he said teasingly, "I could have sworn that there were dishes to do in the other room. But wait... No, it must have been my imagination. A pity. I was so looking forward to them too."

She gave him a half smile, and tugged him toward the sound of activity coming from the kitchen.

8

Frank fairly floated upstairs, barely noticing where she was going. Hermione still had her by the arm, and since narrowly avoiding running her into a wall, the British witch had also saved her from an untimely encounter with a doorjamb, two sinister-looking steps, and a particularly vicious corner. She smiled dreamily when she saw the door open to the room she'd been shown earlier. Ginny slept here, Hermione, across the hall. She felt she rather liked the other girl. She was bright, and quick-witted. She had a sharp sense of humour, and a talent for getting her out of harm's way. No mean feat. It was in this way that Frank found her self automatically undressing, slipping on an oversized shirt, and between between crisp, clean sheets. Stomach full, and completely content, she drifted off to sleep.

8

Ginny now looked into a small niche set into the wall. Inside was a piece of paper, and another chip. Charles dug in one of her pockets, and pulled out a pencil. It was yellow, topped with a pink eraser, and looked completely ordinary. She pointed to the paper. It read:

_I, Ginny Weasley, do hereby activate Account # 247. I claim full responsibility for the wealth and contents of said account._

Below it there was a dotted line. She scrawled a hasty signature. The paper shimmered, not unlike the door, and disappeared. Then there was another shimmering, and her original chip slid into view beside the new one. Charles reached forward and picked up the small blue chip and the larger green one. She fiddled with them until Ginny heard a small click. She passed her the new chip. Now that Ginny looked at them closely, she noted that Charles had pieced them together like a puzzle. They fit perfectly together, and where they met, the glass looked turquoise.

"Well?" said Charles, looking impatient. "Insert your chip."

Ginny once again surrendered her chip to the grey jelly pad next to her.

"How much do you want?" Charles asked.

Ginny felt horribly ignorant and as uncomfortable as she always did when talking about money. "How much should I have?"

The other girl looked thoughtful. "How about three hundred Dalle, twenty Nackles, five Burs, and fifty Canadian dollars."

Ginny raised her eyebrows silently, and followed Charles' expectant look to the alcove.

A small change purse slid into view. It was a horrendous shade of pink, and was decorated with hideous turquoise lace. It looked like something that had been rotting in her Great Aunt Muriel's tea room for a few hundred years, been subsequently eaten by one of her cats, and then vomited back up unapologetically. Hesitant to touch something so horrible, she picked it up with only the tips of her fingers. Charles laughed.

"Oh my. You did get a bad one. Mum's is purple and gold, but yours is just awful. No, you can't change it. They're programmed to work with the account. One chance only."

"It's really small." Ginny remarked, trying to forget how ugly it was.

"Bottomless." Charles explained. "Not very pretty to look at, but not something you're likely to lose. By accident, that is."

Ginny picked up her meaning immediately, and laughed. "Too true." She pocketed the pink purse with a grimace. "So, do I get my chip back?"

Charles frowned. "You're supposed to..." She banged in the wall. "I think it ate your chip...no, wait, in the process of mastication... hold on."

She stuck her arm straight into the plaque of grey jelly. Disgusted, Ginny flinched in repugnance. Charles had a look of immense concentration on her face. She stuck out her tongue, and her eyes squeezed shut.

Ginny waited patiently. She'd been wondering if Charles was indeed slightly mad, and here was proof. She stopped, and laughed at herself. Considering she'd spent an entire year writing to an almost-dead guy's sixteen-year old memory, she was in no place to talk. She took out her change purse, and undid the clasp. Inside were some large purple glass coins, some slightly smaller yellow ones, and a few tiny greens. She also found some gold metal ones, and she thought she could see the tip of something that was made of paper.

Charles made a triumphant sound, and pulled her arm out with a wet squelching noise. She held in her hand the chip Ginny had earlier inserted into the wobbling grey mass. Ginny thanked her, and pocketed both the chip and the money, walking back into the elevator, while Charles wiped her arm on her skirt.

"That was a little yucky," Charles commented once the elevator was moving.

"Well," said Ginny, "I'm just glad it was you, not me. How did you know my chip hadn't been eaten, anyway?"

Charles looked awkward, and then grinned. "I'm magic."

Ginny glanced sideways at her. Still curious, but not wanting to make her new friend uncomfortable, she let the matter slide.

Once out of the bank, Charles led Ginny around the other side of the bank, and through a brightly lit doorway bearing the sign 'Public Transit'. Inside there was a desk under a board reading 'One-way Pass...2 Burs'.

Charles fished around in her pockets and pulled out two of the small green coins Ginny had seen in her purse earlier.

"C'mon." Charles said in an undertone. "We took a little longer than expected at Gringott's, and we're running late. It's only two burs and it's so much faster."

Ginny obediently pulled out the dreadful bag and extracted two of the minute green coins. They clinked pleasantly together. She handed them to Charles, who passed them to a woman standing behind the low desk. The woman gave her two paper packets of what Ginny could only assume was Floo powder in exchange.

Stepping into the unnaturally large fireplace, Ginny and Charles ripped open their packets and headed for home.


	4. Perfectly Normal

_We have normality. I repeat, we have normality. Anything you still can't cope with is therefore your own problem._

_Douglas Adams_

8

Frank smiled and her eyes blinked open. She took in the yellow walls, and the blue curtains. Yesterday's clothes were lying on a wicker chair on the other side of the room. She felt deliciously rested, and happily wiggled her toes under the covers. Her eye came to rest by the door, where her trunk was sitting open. She closed her eyes and focused on her slippers. After a few seconds, she opened them again, and looked to the end of her bed, where they were now sitting, smoking slightly. She sat up and tugged them onto her feet. Padding silently across the hardwood floor, Frank began digging through her trunk for some clothes to wear. A quick glance out the window told her that it was sunny, and she obligingly pulled out a purple skirt and turquoise tank-top. Tossing them onto her bed, she grabbed some shampoo and trekked down the hall to the bathroom.

She closed the door and began humming to herself as she ran hot water into the tub. England was a lovely place, she thought, slipping under the water. Everything was so green, and there were so many trees. The twins had shown her around yesterday, and she'd shamelessly taken up their entire afternoon. The entire Weasley family was delightful. They were wonderfully open and honest. They made her feel as though she belonged in their home as rightly as they did themselves, and it wasn't a bad feeling. The Burrow was welcoming as well, and she could have sworn that the door had moved itself last night when she'd almost collided with it in her haste to reach the bed.

She sneezed as some of the bubbles from her shampoo got in her nose. Rinsing her hands under the water, she sank back and rinsed the soap out of her hair. It really wasn't that much different than Canada, she reasoned. If you discounted the accents, wooden wands, strange customs, and fashion sense, then people here were almost the same as the witches and wizards she knew.

Sitting up, she began to wring out her hair. She loved it, she truly did. Nobody had hair like hers, but she had to admit it was trying at times. There must be only so much frizz one person can handle, she theorized, before they go completely insane.

She pulled the plug, and watched, semi-interested, as the water was sucked mercilessly down the drain. She was broken from her reverie, when a loud empty vacuum noise met her ears, and reluctantly stood up. Shivering slightly, she grabbed a towel off the pile, and wrapped it tightly around herself. Frank looked at her blurry reflection, and wiped out a clear patch in the steamed up mirror. She looked at her hair in dismay when she realized that it was already starting to corkscrew. She sighed, shoved her feet into her slippers, and gathered her pajamas under one arm.

Stepping out into the hall, she winced as cool air hit her warm skin. Frank heard footsteps down the hall, and when Harry walked into view, she suddenly became horribly aware of how little she was wearing.

8

Harry dragged himself out of bed. It was a quarter to eight, and he had awoken with an uncomfortably full bladder. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he groped for the door handle and turned. Stepping out into the hall, he blinked and let his eyes adjust to the light. He walked down the stairs, squinting, and out onto the second floor hallway. Once his eyes focused, he did a double take as his brain slowly registered what he was seeing.

Frank was standing there, a wry grin on her face, clutching a bundle of clothes, and wearing a towel so small, it appeared to be staying in place through sheer willpower. Harry's eyes traveled from her bare shoulders, to her slipper-clad feet and he felt his cheeks heat up. He was, after all, extremely unfamiliar with women's bathing habits, and extremely indisposed toward dealing with them at this hour.

'I—I—'

Frank giggled.

Harry blinked.

'Going to stand there all day, or do you need the bathroom?'

Harry blinked again, and responded with an intelligent string of grunts and mumbles. He averted his gaze and reached one hand up to run nervously through his hair.

Frank laughed again. 'Later.' She said and walked boldly past him, somehow managing not to lose her towel in the process.

After she had closed the door to Ginny's room, he stood there a moment, his brain trying in vain to catch up to his body. Deciding that all he really needed some more sleep, he hurried into the bathroom with every intention of returning to the safety of his bed as soon as possible.

8

Frank walked in a dignified manner up to the door of her room. She held herself up straight, and sauntered through the doorway. Calmly and collectedly, she shut the door behind her, before throwing herself on the bed and screaming into her pillow. She had never been so embarrassed in her life! Sure, she'd worn a bathing suit in public, but this was much, much worse. Despite the fact that she'd been wearing a towel, the look he had given her had made her feel as though it was much less. Added to the facts that she'd only exchanged a handful of words with him and in no way found him unattractive, she was mortified at not having had the insight to at least change inside the bathroom.

She ran a hand through her hair. It was wild, and making wet zigzag patterns on the pillow. She pressed her hands to her burning cheeks, and replayed the incident in her head. Maybe it hadn't been too bad, she mused. That is, it could have been worse. At least he didn't make any comments. He'd seemed to be even more embarrassed than her. She smiled as she remembered his stricken face. He'd looked ready to wet himself . . . which, she reminded herself, was a likely possibility considering he'd been headed for the bathroom.

Chuckling now, she got up, and picked up the clothes that had been squished under her. Coaxing the wrinkles out of them, she briefly toweled off before adorning herself in the colourful garb. Flipping her head upside down, Frank dried her hair, and hung the wet towel on the doorknob. Risking a glance in the mirror, she inwardly winced at the state of her hair. Digging around in her trunk a few moments later, she produced a tube of purple goo. Squeezing a generous amount onto her palm, she flipped the lid shut, and applied the gunk to her over-excited locks. Presently, she heard a quiet knock on the door.

Wiping the remaining gel on the towel, she cracked open the door. Wishing with every fiber of her being that Harry hadn't worked up the courage to actually approach her after their impromptu rendezvous in the hall, she opened it a little wider. Noticing that her visitor was female instead of male, she swung it open the rest of the way. Hermione stood outside holding a thick text and a tube of toothpaste. She let out a squeak, and dropped what she was carrying.

Frank's hands shot out and saved the quickly descending items from an untimely encounter with Hermione's toes. Straightening, she looked up at the British witch questioningly. Hermione's hand was on her heart and her breathing fast, but she seemed none the worse for wear.

'I'm sorry,' Hermione gasped, 'I was just surprised...your hair...'

Backing into the room, Frank placed the book and toothpaste on her bed and glanced in the mirror. Her hair, thanks to the gel, now stood in a violently violet cone on the top of her head. She laughed.

'Oh, it's just the gel. It'll relax in a few minutes, though I swear sometimes it's got a mind of its own. What're you doing up this early?'

The other girl looked relieved, as though she'd been half expecting that Frank would tell her it was a style. 'Well, I heard your voice in the hall, and I always get up this early. The house is always quiet, and no one teases me for reading too much.' She looked away, no doubt expecting the other witch to laugh.

Instead Frank said, 'I know how you feel. Charles sleeps late, and my brother's usually out at practice, so more often than not I end up by myself in the mornings." She glanced at the book in the British girl's hands. She was faintly surprised to see a Drifter novel clutched in her arms. "You read science fiction?"

Hermione's eyes widened. "You've read _Dune_?" Frank nodded. "Oh how wonderful! The boys won't ever consent to reading anything for fun, which eliminates all fiction books, idiots; what about the others in the series?"

Frank wrinkled her nose. "Only up to _Chapterhouse_, they took a severe turn for the worse when Frank Herbert died. The original, though... classic. Just beautiful work."

Engaged in a stimulating and satisfying discussion, the two girls would spend the next few hours animatedly debating the better authors of Muggle literature.

8

Ginny awoke confused and disoriented to a loud banging noise. Thinking that it must be the ghoul up in the attic, she rolled over to get some more sleep. This thought, however, was short-lived, as she subsequently remembered that she was in Canada, coincidentally in the attic of the Inglenook. The bang came again, and she rubbed her eyes furiously. Running her hands through her hair, she pulled the covers aside and walked across the room to where someone was enthusiastically battering the trapdoor. Hefting it open she looked down at the person standing on a stepping stool underneath her. She was obviously female, marked by a naturally curvaceous figure and shockingly white mane of hair.

Her voice still groggy, and her hair rumpled with sleep, Ginny kind of forgot to be polite to her Veela-esque visitor.

'Who the hell are you?'

'Aw, come on, is it really that bad!' The other girl grabbed the ledge Ginny was standing on and hoisted herself up before she was smooshed in the doorway. Swinging her legs free of the falling door, she stood up, adjusting her purple tights and pale blue dress. "Maybe the hair is a bit much... I do look a bit like Pascale."

Ginny's eyes traveled from the white hair, to the lurid orange eye shadow, from the purple tights, to the familiar clunky boots, this time is a disturbing dusty pink. Of their own accord, her eyebrows shot up and disappeared under orange fringe.

'Charles?!'

'The one and only.' She smirked at Ginny's bewildered expression. Biting her tongue, she shivered slightly and her hair grew shorter and spiked up purple.

Comprehension dawned on Ginny's face, and she smiled widely. 'You're a Metamorphmagus!'

'I forgot you didn't know, it's nice to still surprise people sometimes...no one around here bats an eye when my hair goes from neon blue to sunset orange. It's terribly depressing.'

Ginny blinked at her.

'Anyways, I came up because you've been sleeping for ages! It's lunchtime, and Dom and Izz are downstairs waiting for us. We're going shopping, and you're coming with us.'

'But I'm not ready!' Ginny's eyes widened.

'Meh, it's not hard; I'll even help.' Her wand appeared in her hand and she made violent up-and-down gestures with it.

Ginny's eyes squeezed shut as her hair was pulled in painful directions. 'Ow!'

But Charles had mumbled something under her breath, and Ginny looked down at her formerly limp bed-head. It was combed, and loose, her curls looked clean, and much more awake than she felt.

'Okay.' She said uncertainly.

'Teeth.'

Ginny next experienced the peculiar sensation of something invisible and immaterial cleaning her teeth. To someone who had only just woken up, this was surprisingly rejuvenating.

'Ack, gross, it's—'

And then it was over, and Ginny was left with a pleasantly minty taste in her mouth.

'That was the most disgusting thing I have felt since Michael Corner tried to stick his tongue—'

Charles had shoved some clothes into her arms. Glancing down, former thoughts forgotten, she saw her pale yellow sundress and a pair of socks that belonged to Harry. She smiled as she looked the snitches flying around the toe. She started when Charles waved a hand around in front of her face.

'Hey, no sleeping with your eyes open, it's _so_ against the rules. Are you going to change or not, because if not, then I'm sure Dom would be happy to see you in your underwear.'

'That's not fair, I'm coming...I thought I was doing pretty good, all things considered.' Charles raised an eyebrow which had, oddly enough, remained white.

'Fine.' Ginny spun on her heel and pulled her nightshirt over her head. As she tugged on the yellow dress, she asked, 'Where are we going exactly?'

'Around,' the other girl said evasively, 'Izzie's got a few stores we're going to have to visit, but besides that, there's no set plan.'

Ginny grunted as she tugged on Harry's socks.

'It depends,' Charles continued, 'whether you want to walk, take the bus, or if you really don't care one way or the other.'

Ginny dug through yesterday's clothes before she found her wand, and the garish purse. Sticking her wand down her sock, she crunched up the bag as tightly as it would go, half hoping it might disappear.

Charles tutted, wearing a smirk. 'No, no. You can't walk around like that. You need your hands free, and even if you think you don't, it would drive me crazy if you carried that thing around all day.'

'Crazy?' Came a voice from the hatch, 'A little too late for that, don't you think?'

Frank spun around so violently that her hair turned jet black, and her ears became the size of saucers.

'Give it up,' Dom said slightly disapprovingly, 'We all know you weren't surprised.'

Ginny could have sworn his eyes briefly flicked towards her, but shrugged it off as unimportant.

'At least she's decent,' Isabella said, elbowing him in the ribs, 'I told you it would be better if you stayed downstairs.'

'As if I was going to stand there by myself, gods, Jason is down there with all his freaky little midget friends. I refuse to be a sacrificial fish.'

Charles made a strange coughing noise that sounded suspiciously like 'lamb', but Ginny couldn't be sure. She recovered and glared at the twins.

'As I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted, we'll just give you a string.' She bit her lip and a tiny crease appeared between her brows. Raising her wand, she pinched the tip, and slowly drew out a pale pink ribbon. A few seconds later, the other end appeared, cut in chevron and all. A sign appeared above her head blinking 'Applause' and she bowed dramatically with a flourish of the ribbon.

Laughing at her antics, Ginny passed her the purse. Charles trimmed it in bows, and handed it back. Wincing, Ginny slung it around her shoulder, and turned to the door.

'What?' Izzie asked, 'You're not going to leave it like that, are you?'

'Pardon me?' Ginny blinked.

'No offense,' Izzie looked at her questioningly, 'But you don't want to leave it that colour...do you?'

'What colour?'

Izzie looked at Dominic. He looked uncomfortable. 'Pink?' He said, wincing as though expecting to be elbowed.

'Yes.' Ginny replied slowly, as though she wasn't sure what he was talking about, 'It is pink.'

Dom appeared confident now that he wasn't going to be elbowed, and he raised his eyebrows. 'Are you going to change it?'

'The colour?'

'Yes.' they said together.

Ginny stared blankly at them.

Dominic went in search of the nearest wall, no doubt looking for a suitable place to bash his head against.

Izzie shot him a glare. Ginny, in turn, glared suspiciously at Charles, who, in her own turn, glared innocently at the space beside Ginny's head.

'What?'

'You said I couldn't change it.'

'Did I?'

Izzie rolled her eyes. 'Charlotte Edwina Brooks!'

Charles flinched. 'Yes, Isabella?'

'If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times. Don't play jokes on people you haven't known for at least twenty-four hours!'

Ginny looked back and forth between the two Canadians. Suddenly, Izzie smiled. 'Great idea though. Just think. Poor Ginny here could have gone the next two weeks with no clue as to why perfectly normal Cathedrillians were giving her a wide berth down 13th.'

'Perfectly normal?' Charles said with a snicker.

Ginny cleared her throat. Charles looked at her without the slightest tract of guilt and said, "Fine, fine. Give it here."

A minute later the bag was returned and now a nice respectable red - which happened to match Harry's socks nicely. Charles grumbled all the while, and muttered, "Spoilsports," as Ginny once again slung the bag over her shoulder.

Dominic caught Ginny's eyes and rolled his. Grinning, she looped her arm through the one he'd held out for her. Charles and Izzie had started on ahead of them, and Ginny could head their lightly bickering voices coming from the hall below.

'Don't mind Charles,' Dominic said, leading her across the floor, 'She can be a little...' he fumbled for an appropriate word '...brash.'

Ginny raised her eyebrows.

'At least you know she likes you!' he said apologetically, 'If she didn't, she'd be really quiet and sulky,' he diplomatically ignored Ginny's snort. 'She'll calm down in a few days, once she gets a little more comfortable around you... unfortunately she's not likely to be very tactful and cautious in the mean time.'

Ginny nodded her head. 'I wasn't really offended, you know. I find that after living with boys all my life, I seem to be a little less sensitive than a girl normally is. Not exactly a trait I mourn the loss of, I can tell you. I've had much worse.'

Dominic smiled, 'Just don't hold it against her, okay? She's really a great person when you get to know her...admittedly a little erratic and eccentric, but I'm not sure that ever harmed anybody. Give her time, you'll be stuck with her for the next few weeks, and it would be awful if you two met at odds sometime in between.'

'I'll give her a try,' Ginny grinned, 'but I must admit that that 'Metamorphmagus' thing threw me a little.'

Dominic laughed. 'Threw is a nice way of putting it. Here,' he offered her a hand down from the ceiling. Slipping her hand in his she jumped through the doorway. She landed with a thud, and bent her knees to avoid the shock.

"So I haven't really been told where we're going..." Ginny began, but Dominic shook his head.

"It's difficult to explain, and given the sentimentality of moth Iz and Charles I doubt they'd want me to. You'll just have to see it for yourself." Then he smirked and lead her down the hall.

8

'Hey, Fred, I'm open!' Frank caught the Quaffle under one arm and sped towards the goal. Ron was hovering uncertainly, no doubt remembering her last shot at the hoops. Swerving, she rolled left, then lightly tossed the ball over her shoulder and into George's waiting hands. Seconds later it flew through the right hoop, and Ron threw up his hands in frustration.

'I quit! I refuse to work in these conditions! I want a pay raise, as well as—' He stopped when he saw his mum shoot up blue sparks from the ground.

'Lunch!' one of the twins yelled.

Moments later, all four teens were clambering off their brooms and joining Hermione and her book as they walked into the house.

Frank sidled up to the other witch. 'So, is this the one you were telling me about?'

Hermione turned at the voice, and smiled. 'Yes, it's _A Classical History of Improved Magics_. All about the evolution of our current magical proficiency.'

Frank frowned. 'So it mentions the Old Magics?'

Hermione nodded. 'It begins with a brief explanation of how they worked, and then goes on to explain a bit of how one might use them if we still possessed that knowledge. Pleasantly a little less biased than most of the relevant literature. Personally, I'd love to see someone use Old Magic. It sounds fascinating.'

Frank raised an eyebrow and whistled through her teeth. 'Fascinating, powerful, and dangerous. They don't know how we lost the knowledge, but most people believe that it wasn't through natural causes. Where did you find it? The book, that is.'

'In a second-hand bookstore. It's in Diagon Alley... I'll take you there when we go shopping for school supplies. The owner is a little bit odd, but really helpful if you need to find anything.'

Frank smiled. 'Sure thing. But for now, lunch?'

Hermione walked first onto the porch, and opened the door, motioning for Frank to go through. 'After you.'

'Thank-you muchly.'

They both laughed.

Walking into the dining room, Frank found herself face to face with Harry.

He blushed slightly at their proximity. 'I, er, I was coming to get you.'

Frank smiled at his discomfort. 'Thanks, Harry,' she said bashfully, lowering her gaze, 'I really appreciate it.' Frank looked coyly at him through her eye-lashes.

Harry made a strangled noise, and looked wildly from side to side. 'Erm, lunch!' he said desperately, spinning on his heel and rushing into a chair with its back to her. Hermione walked through the doorway previously vacated by Harry and raised an eyebrow at Frank.

'You did that on purpose!' she hissed out of the corner of her mouth.

Frank widened her eyes innocently, and pointed to herself as if to say 'Me?'

Hermione glared.

'Say, Hermione,' Ron called across the table, 'Are you coming, or not?'

Grinning Frank held out her arm. 'You're being paged, I do believe.'

Hermione rolled her eyes and Frank laughed, seating herself in the empty seat beside Harry. Looking hungrily around the table, she laid a hand gently on Harry's arm, and leaned close to him whispering, 'Harry, would you be so kind as to pass me the sandwiches?'

8

Harry bristled. Resisting the urge to wipe his suddenly-hot forehead, he swallowed to clear his throat and said in a constrained manner, 'Pardon?'

Frank smiled, and Harry swallowed again. What was it about her smile that made it seem almost...feral?

'Sandwiches.'

Harry's head snapped around. The sandwiches were right in front of him. Damn. So there was no way he could get someone else to do it. Cautiously extracting himself from the uncomfortable position she'd placed them in, he grabbed the plate with both hands, and placed it in front of her.

'Thanks!' she grinned impishly and his feeling of twitchiness increased. Someone kicked him under the table.

'Ow!' His hand immediately went to rub his offended knee. Across the table, Hermione turned scarlet.

The twins quickly put two and two together and grinned wickedly.

'Hermione...were you playing footsie with Harry?'

She picked up her glass, and ducked her head behind her juice mumbling something about meaning to get Frank.

Fred gave a sharp bark of laughter. 'And what, exactly, Hermione, were you doing playing footsie with Frank?

Ron, whom Harry had thought was too engrossed in his food, suddenly turned to stare at Hermione. 'You were playing footsie with Frank!'

Fred and George howled with laughter, and Hermione's hair seemed to bristle of it's own accord. Harry was reminded strongly of Hedwig when she was feeling particularly affronted and puffed up her feathers. He also thought it might be wise not to mention this particular fact to Hermione.

'No!' she said indignantly, as if she'd been accused of cheating on a quiz. 'I was trying to get her attention. There's nothing wrong with that, is there?'

George looked at her shrewdly. 'If you were trying to get her attention, why didn't you just ask for it?' He grinned, no doubt thinking he'd found a loophole in her excuse.

Hermione, beginning to regain her composure simply smiled and said, 'Girl stuff.'

Harry was very confused. What exactly _was_ girl stuff? What did girl talk about that was somehow exclusive to their gender? He frowned with dismay.

Frank stood in her seat. 'Oh! I'd forgotten. I was going to tell you about—' she broke off and looked pointedly at Harry. Unfortunately, he was even more confounded than he'd been a few moments ago, and stared blankly back, wondering if he ought to be afraid. Frank turned back to Hermione, seeming strangely triumphant. Mrs. Weasley chose this moment to walk in.

She immediately looked to Frank, who was still standing, and then to Hermione, who stood up seconds later.

'Mrs. Weasley-—' Hermione started.

'Could we take some sandwiches outside? It's such a nice day, and Hermione was telling me about this beautiful stream down by the path.' Frank finished for her, ignoring the other girl's glare.

Hermione looking slightly put out, continued, 'It's really lovely, especially at noon because the sun creates the most delightful shadows on the bottom of the—'

'Please?'

Both girls looked hopeful, even if one of the looks was a little more impatient than the other.

Mrs. Weasley smiled, which Harry thought was a good sign, and after assuring them that it was no trouble, and that it truly was an excellent time to visit the stream, she practically shoved them out the door with more food than they could ever eat by themselves.

He turned back to face Ron and mouthed, _Girl stuff?_

Ron shrugged and resumed inhaling his tomato and cheese.

'You're in for it now, Harry,' one of the twins leered at him.

'Did you see the way she was looking at him, Fred?'

'Indeed I did, George.

'Did you notice the skill and finesse that went into that maneuver?'

'Bit hard to miss, wasn't it, Fred?'

'Brilliant.'

'We should offer her a job.'

'Not a bad idea, brother of mine.'

'No, I thought not, but...'

'There is a flaw in this plan.'

'I'm afraid so.'

'Continental differences can certainly put a damper on a relationship.'

'Such a pity.'

Mercifully, the twins lapsed into silence. It was at times like this that Harry prided himself on being able to recognize the hopelessness of a situation. Aware that this had never stopped him in the past, but feeling strongly that honesty, to himself at least, was essential, he accepted the truth: he was completely and utterly lost.


	5. The Saskwatches

_"Oh no, not again."_

_-A bowl of petunias on it's way to certain death._

8

Dom pushed open the door, which trilled a catchy tune. It was the shoe store that Ginny had been admiring the day before. She was, as Charles had exuberantly put it, 'shopping from the ground up'. Taking a few steps, she heard the door jangle again as Izzie and Charles walked in behind them.

'I love this store!' Charles' voice muttered from the doorway.

'Glad to hear it, Charlotte. From t'e amount of time you spend in 'ere, I should give you a bed in t'e back, or start paying you at t'e very least.'

Charles laughed, and rushed forward and into the arms of a burly man with a shockingly red beard. Thinking that he would look more at home on a dock carting fish than a store selling shoes, Ginny caught Dominic's eye and gesticulated towards the man.

Dom laughed, and stepped forward. 'Ginny, this is Samuel Dufoudre. Sam, this is Ginny Weasley.'

''lut,', he said, coming forward, and shaking her hand up and down so enthusiastically that Ginny had to concentrate to not let her entire upper body mimic the movement. Managing not to bob her head too much, she heard Sam continue, 'You exchanged with Francis?'

'Yeah, that's me.'

'Ah, I can tell. Lovely voice. Nort'ern England did you say you came from?'

'I didn't, but yes, that's about right.' At the mention of voices, she noticed that he had an accent himself, slightly different than Charles and the twins, and he spoke as if English was his second language.

'Where are you from—if you don't mind my asking?' She felt a little shy next to this giant stranger: Hagrid's bulk with an unfamiliar face.

He laughed. 'No need to be timid around me, I'm from Tête-à-la-Baleine, pure Québecois. Used to fish, when I was young. It was a family business but it wasn't really for me... of course some people would say selling shoes shouldn't be for me eit'er, but I go conveniently deaf when they approach me wit' ot'er suggestions. T'ere'll always be people trying to stop you doing what you love. You just have to know how to get in t'eir way as much as possible and 'ope t'ey'll give up sooner rat'er t'an later.'

Ginny smiled in spite of herself.

'But I expect you four didn't come for a chat, t'ough, did you? Well, what exactly are you looking for?'

Ginny bit her lip, 'Well, it says I need black shoes on my school list.'

She drew it out of her new bag, and scanned the items mentioned. 'Two pairs, and some boots.' Ginny blinked, and looked at Charles, who was now peering over her shoulder at the list.

'Why do I need boots?'

Charles raised her eyebrows. 'Boots? For all sorts of things. Hiking, planting, winter, social events...'

Ginny grinned. 'Social events?'

'Yeah, you know, dances, parties, afternoon tea? Things that you do with other people?'

'Like shopping?' Ginny looked pointedly at Charles' shocking-pink-clad feet. Surprisingly, the other girl blushed.

'Yes, like shopping.'

'Charlie! T'ose aren't my shoes!' Sam exclaimed with a horrified look of betrayal.

Charles flushed again. 'I'm sorry! They were all I had to fit these feet...and the only size that didn't make me look like a duck.'

Sam looked skeptical.

'But,' Charles said with a strategic pause, 'I came here specifically today so that I could buy some shoes for this size.'

'Shoes?' Sam said with a glint in his eyes.

'Yes... I'm thinking of purple. How does that sound? I don't have many purple ones.'

Sam had quickly taken on an air of professional consideration. He was examining Charles' feet with great interest, with his head tilted and one eye closed in thought.

'I'll be right back,' and with that, he hurried away between the shelves stacked with shoes.

Charles excitedly ran up to the shelves and appeared to be pulling shoes off at random. Positioning herself on a straight-back chair sitting conveniently at the end of the aisle, she dropped the shoes in a small mountain around her and began trying them on.

It was an amazing thing to watch. Ginny now understood why she didn't need to worry about size when she was picking them off the shelves. As a Metamorphmagus, she could change the size and shape of her foot to fit whatever she chose to put on it. Feeling slightly jealous, her eyes widened as Charles fit a foot comfortably into what would have possibly been the shoe size of a five year old.

Ginny looked up, and saw Sam's hair approaching from over the top of the shelves. He emerged, looking entirely unsurprised that Charles had situated herself on a throne of shoes. Several boxes floated behind him, and when he waved his wand, they piled themselves neatly beside him.

'All right, love,' he conjured up a chair for her, and Ginny obediently sat down, wondering slightly at the nickname, 'Charles'll be busy for a while, if that blizzard of shoes around her person is anyt'ing to judge by. I say we get started.

'Now, you said you needed black shoes, so I took the liberty of picking out several styles. First, I have a regular shoe, black, leat'er, lace-up. It also comes in oxblood, brown, and red, but is fairly plain, and I don't care for it much.'

Ginny watched as he picked the top shoebox off of the pile, and drew out a plain black shoe just like any other she would have seen on the foot of an average Hogwarts student. Not wanting to sound rude, but thinking that it might be nice to have something different for a change, she cautiously said, 'Are there any other choices? I already have a pair a bit like this.'

Sam smiled widely, looking immensely relieved that she'd asked. 'And away it goes!' he crowed, wiggling his fingers a bit, and the box as well as the normal looking shoes disappeared.

Half an hour later, Ginny had worked her way through near fifty pairs of shoes, and even Charles had abandoned her mountain to watch Ginny's own steadily growing pile.

Currently, Ginny had on a pair of dark green boots that almost reached her knees and tied with cream-coloured laces. Admiring them, she stood up and took a few steps before spinning around and prancing back to her chair.

'I love them!'

Sam grinned, and Charles spoke up.

'They look awesome on you, Gin. If you didn't like them, I'd buy them myself. Although they wouldn't look half so good on me.'

Izzie cut in, 'I say you buy them. Dom agrees.'

Dominic raised his eyebrows, then shrugged.

'Awesome,' Charles exclaimed, 'Okay, Sam, I'll get the red boots, the green sandals, and the black slippers. Ginny, you're getting the green boots, the black shoes with buttons, black ones with red interior, purple lace-ups, and oxblood man-boots. Is that all?'

Ginny blinked. Starting to say that she really didn't need all those, and that she probably couldn't afford them, she stopped short when Charles raised a hand.

'You've got enough money, you like them, and shoes are a very important part of your wardrobe.'

Ginny grinned, and looked down at the selected shoes that were now aligned perfectly on the floor. It was novel to buy new shoes never mind so many. Smiling wider she agrees with Charles and Sam went to go ring them in.

8

Hermione dropped onto the grass with a thud and watched as Frank sat beside her, propping their food between them. The Canadian lay back and stared into the canopy of leaves.

'So...' Frank started lamely. Crickets chirped.

'Yes?'

'Lovely here. Really nice.'

'I know.'

'Yes, I'm sure you do... I meant, what did we want to talk about?' Frank blinked, and yawned.

'Harry.'

She raised her eyebrows. 'What about him?' She looked at Hermione expectantly.

'You—well. You were... You were intentionally making him uncomfortable.' Frank noticed that the other girl had the grace to blush.

'I was making him uncomfortable?' she repeated, to be sure she'd heard right. Izzie had once accused her of doing a similar thing to Dom, but they'd been eight and he'd been genuinely terrified of her cooties. What could Hermione possibly be talking about? 'You two aren't going out or anything, are you?'

'No! Why would you think that?'

'Well then, why do you care if I tease him a little bit? I'm mostly harmless."

"I care as one concerned for his peace of mind. He doesn't need any more stress in his life."

Stress? "But he's so funny! You'd think he's never flirted with a girl before!'

'He probably hasn't.'

Alarmed, Frank turned quickly on her side and stared at Hermione.

'He what?!'

'He probably hasn't...flirted with a girl before.'

'How old is he again?'

'Sixteen.'

'And you're telling me he's never...he must have. It's impossible that he could live sixteen years of his life, without even _once_ flirting... frivolously, as Charles says.' After all, it could be so much _fun_!

'Not for him.'

Frank stared, uncomprehending. Sure, he was a little awkward, but what exactly was she getting at? Did he not date? Was he just emotionally inept? Gay?

'Do you know what happened with—um—Voldemort?'

'No? What's that, a bad horror film? The Flight from Death? Or, like, a fairy-tale character, loosely translated, Thief of Death?'

'You speak French?' Hermione said, surprised.

'Yeah. Well, I'm mostly bilingual... Pascale's been helping me. But I'm not sure I'm up to the standards of France yet. Not to mention that they have such a weird accent. All posh and perfect. They sound like someone with a stick stuck up their—'

'No! ... I mean, no. That's not what I meant to say. Well, yes, it was, but that's beside the point. What I meant was, what have you heard about Harry?'

In the short conversation the two had had last night, she had actually gleaned very little. So she improvised. 'What about him? I know he's slim, has black hair and super nice eyes, and an image of me in a towel imprinted in his brain, but aside from that...he also seems a little unsure of himself. Why?'

Hermione rolled her eyes. 'You've never heard of the Famous Harry Potter? Not at all?'

Frank grinned, aware that she was obviously missing something. 'He's famous?'

Hermione took a deep breath, and began to tell Harry's story.

Frank surprise quickly turned to distaste, then briefly skepticism, until she finally felt herself begin to become angry as Hermione finished the tale.

'You're serious, right?'

Hermione nodded. Stupid Brits.

'Then why the hell are you treating him like he's made of glass! I'm sure it's the last thing he wants. Gods, if it was me, I'd wallop the next person who glanced sideways at me, or whispered around...' she trailed off, her cheeks pinking with emotion, and took a deep calming breath. Coherence was a virtue. 'For goodness' sake, he probably just wants to be normal! A regular teenager, with regular problems. Isn't it your job to help him? My sister was sick a few years ago. Really sick. We thought she was a goner. No one said her name aloud, and whenever we went somewhere, people would look the other way, as if they were trying to give us privacy!" Well, at the time that wasn't the only reason they were given space, but she didn't really need to go into that here. "It was awful! But we kept talking to her like everything was fine, and when she actually got better, she said it was the best thing anyone's ever done for her. She'd felt so estranged from normal people, that even the five of us, going out of our way to pretend, for just a little while, that she wasn't on her death bed, was the only thing that kept her sane!' Frank seemed to deflate as she neared the end of her rant.

She took another deep breath. Harry's seemingly terminal situation was obvious comparable. 'Do you see what I'm getting at?'

Hermione nodded slowly. 'I guess I never really thought of it as being quite so... preferential? I don't think I'd like it either, to be frank.'

Frank grinned. Despite the fact that Hermione had not half an hour ago been trying to warn her away from Harry for the very reasons she was now recounting, at least she was showing some sense. 'No offense, but you don't have what it takes to be Frank. That is a privilege reserved only for moi.'

Hermione smiled, then bit her lip and glanced at the leaves overhead. 'So how do we ask? I mean, shouldn't we find out for sure if he's feeling...coddled?'

Frank stretched and reached over to the bag, drawing out an only slightly-squished sandwich. Biting into it she nodded. 'Yes, _you_ should,' she stated soon after swallowing. Noting Hermione's slightly uncomfortable look she said, 'What?'

'I'm—I'm just not sure I want to know is all. He can get pretty scary when he's mad.'

Frank looked up from picking a crumb off her shirt. Scary? That's interesting. 'How so?'

'Well, he used to yell, and it was fine because we were pretty used to it. Now though, he just looks at you. You can't be sure exactly how angry he is except that he uses this really calm voice. If he's really furious, though, sometimes he just stops talking to you all together.' She shook her head, 'I'm just not sure what to expect anymore.'

'It could be just me,' Frank nonchalantly pointed out while picking up another sandwich, 'but Harry doesn't seem like the yelling type. In fact, he doesn't seem to be the anything type. Fairly ordinary, but quite calm about just about anything. For example, we ran into each other this morning right after I'd gotten out of the shower.' She paused for effect, and was rewarded when Hermione grimaced in a fashion suggesting that she was unsure whether or not she wanted to know any more. Frank continued, amused, 'Needless to say, the towel covered very, very little. It was classic.' She grinned at the memory, 'His eyes did that sweep from head to toe that you only ever see in movies, and when his eyes reached my slippers, I swear they got bigger. Fractionally, but unmistakably. Next thing I know, not only is he blushing, but he looked away! Imagine. Sixteen year-old warm-blooded male...and he looked away.' She lapsed into silence, pretending to be speechless with awe.

Hermione raised her eyebrows, and took a drink of orange juice. 'Like I said, Harry's not exactly normal. He does get mad, though. Not as much as he used to... but you'll know. If he's angry with you, you'll definitely know it.

'Well, I guess I'll have to do my best not to get him angry then, won't I? He _is_ single, right?'

'I think so,' Hermione fastened shut the now-empty bag, and brushed herself off, settling down more comfortably in the grass, 'He is as far as I know, though he and Ginny seemed to be getting rather friendly in those last few weeks.'

Ginny? 'So, is he single or not?'

'As far as I know.'

'Great.' Frank lay back again, and imitating Hermione's position, she interlaced her fingers, and settled them on her stomach.

'Hey, Frank?'

'Yeah?' Frank continued to stare into the foliage above.

'Be good to him, will you? His last girlfriend didn't really turn out that well. You might be beneficial for him, in a way. He's never really known someone from our world who didn't immediately associate him with Voldemort.'

Well this was a far cry from the song she'd been singing when they began their little chat. Hell, she wasn't sure she would be interested in anything more than a fling. Or if he'd be interested, for that matter. 'We'll see, Hermione. I'm not even sure he likes me yet. In fact, he could hate my guts, and I wouldn't know the difference.'

'I doubt it. If he hated your guts, you might find yourself suspiciously missing them. Besides, he can't hate you more than he hates Voldemort.'

'Great, so I'm going to get points for not having bad breath, white skin, and a snake face? That's reassuring. I'll be sure to let him know that I don't enjoy killing people and torturing my minions.' She bit her lip, did Dom count as a minion?

'That might be a good idea,' Hermione answered absent-mindedly.

8

'Five. Four. Three. Two. – You only just made it, you know.' Dominic pocketed the stopwatch, and began walking.

'What! You were timing us?' Ginny stared at him incredulously.

'What?' he said defensively, 'I said you had half an hour...besides, it's not my fault you three wanted to shop for lingerie.'

Izzie shook her head. 'Gods Dom, how many times do we have to tell you! It's not lin-ger-ee, it's French! Len-ger-ay!'

'At least once more,' he said with a grin. 'Besides, I, at least, got something useful done. Look at these new Jo'Ouqye tactics. I ordered this thing months ago, but the wait was worth it.'

He passed Charles a paperback book, and she flipped to a page in the middle. Ginny leaned over, and was surprised to see that it contained diagrams of blindfolded people carrying silver hoops, and wearing tight-fitting uniforms of black and grey.

'What is it?' she asked.

'Jo'Ouqye.' Izzie replied, sounding preoccupied. She and Charles were walking with their heads so close to the pages that they were weaving as they walked, unable too see where they were going.

'Which is...?'

'You've never played it?' Dominic asked her, and she shook her head.

'No.'

Both Izzie and Charles' heads snapped up, and their eyes widened.

'You've—you've never played?' Charles managed to get out.

'Nooo...'

They had stopped walking, and were staring at her as if she'd morphed into a three-headed insect with purple-spotted feelers.

'Stop looking at me like I've become a three headed insect with purple-spotted feelers...it makes me uncomfortable.'

'Seriously, though,' Izzie returned, 'you've never played the game Jo'Ouqye?'

'Have you played Quidditch?' Ginny countered.

'Yes.' All three chorused.

'Oh...well, we don't have Jokuoyeh in Britain...I've never heard of it.'

'Jo'Ouqye.' Izzie corrected automatically.

'How awful.'

'Terrible.'

'Unlucky.'

They shuddered collectively. 'Just wrong.' Izzie finished.

Ginny raised her eyebrows. 'Is it hard? What are you supposed to do?'

'Well,' Charles began, 'You begin with two teams of six players. Each team has their own colour, and each player begins with two silver hoops. The goal of the game is for one team to acquire as many of the other team's hoops as they can. There is one other hoop, called the Ouqye, and when one team manages to find it and loop it around the pole in the center of the field, then the game is over.'

'I guess you could think of the Ouqye ring as a kind of Snitch.' Izzie added.

Dominic nodded. 'Yeah.'

'Okay,' Ginny said slowly, 'so there are six players and two teams. Twelve hoops for each team, and one special hoop called an...Ouqye. Is that right?'

Dom nodded again. 'So,' Ginny continued, 'how do they players get the rings?'

'Technically, all the players are supposed to work together to get the thirteen rings, but there is almost always someone set aside to focus specifically on the Ouqye. The other five players will steal, take, and win the hoops in any way they can.'

'Is that it?' Ginny asked Charles.

'No,' Dominic answered for her, 'All the players are blindfolded. Magically.'

Ginny blinked at him. 'Pardon me?'

Izzie smiled at her confusion. 'They make it so you can't see. A sort of magical blindfold.'

'It's awesome, Ginny,' Charles gushed, 'The field you play in is darkened so that the spectators can see the hoops and the spells the players use better.'

'You use your wands!' Ginny exclaimed, surprised.

'No,' Dominic clarified with a disapproving look at Charles, 'It's wandless, so you rarely come across any really vicious spells. The most common are things like the Hover Charm and Leg Locker. It's a lot harder doing magic without a wand, right?' He half asked, half stated while looking into the shop window to his left, 'That's why you hardly ever see a spell above level two.'

Ginny nodded to show she understood, and started walking again, the others following.

'Which reminds me,' Dominic spoke this time to Izzie and Charles, 'we're going to get two new players this year. Morris owled me this morning. He says he's severed a tendon in his leg, and it's healing so slowly that he won't be able to play.'

Their talk moved on to stratagems, strategies, and tactics, and Ginny quickly tuned them out, focusing instead on the alarming bit of news she'd just been given. Wandless magic? She'd been living with wizards all her life, and the only person she'd ever seen use wandless magic was Dumbledore. No. That wasn't true. Sam had made the boxes disappear today without a wand, hadn't he? She frowned, and realized that Charles was trying to get her attention.

'Hm?' She blinked at the white-haired head bobbing in front of her.

'Earth to Ginny. Come in Ginny. This is Charles speaking, can you hear me?'

'Yeah, what is it?'

'Excellent. About time we returned to the same wavelength. Where do you want to go next?'

Ginny thought for a moment, and took out her list. Scanning it quickly, she glanced up at Charles. 'I've got everything except clothes, a watch, and a man... Why do I need a man?'

Izzie laughed, 'It's not a man, it's a MAN. A Magical Athenaeum Network. It's for a class at school. You'll see. They're loads of fun.'

Ginny smiled uncertainly. 'Honest.' Dominic added.

'Right,' muttered Ginny, 'And the fact that you felt it necessary to add this is supposed to reassure me?'

'Er.'

'That's what I thought.'

8

'Watches!' Izzie cried happily brandishing an arm bedecked with three shiny time-telling devices.

They were standing in the doorway of The Watch Tower as Ginny tried to fit a green dragon-skin watchband around her wrist. The clasp was made from the horn of the Antipodean Opaleye, and it matched her new boots very well indeed. Once fastened, she raised her right arm, and gazed happily at her new watch. The face was iridescent, and the hands the same colour as the clasp. Currently, they pointed to numbers one through twelve around the edges, but Ginny knew they would point to late, time to get up, and procrastinating, when the situation called for it. Lying docilely across the top of the face, not unlike a bow, was a visual replica of a time-turner. If she were to turn it, then the face of the clock would inform her of the well-being of whomever was keyed into it. It was comforting, Ginny thought, to have a little piece of the Burrow to carry around with her. The Canadians thought it a little strange that she would want to be able to keep such close tabs on her friends and family, but they didn't question it too loudly.

'You know,' Izzie stated gleefully, 'I'm very glad you left your watch at home, Ginny. It's so nice to visit an accessory store that I appreciate for once. I mean, Charles got to visit her shoes, it's only fair that we should go watch-shopping.'

'Shoes aren't an accessory, Isabella,' Charles chided, 'They're a necessity.'

Dominic coughed.

'They're accessories the way you buy them, Charlotte.'

Dominic suddenly let out a bark of laughter.

'It wasn't that funny Dom,' Charles said, unimpressed.

'No,' he said, holding out a card, 'read this, it came with Ginny's watch.'

Charles grasped the card by the edge and read:

Made from the skin of the Common Welsh Green and the horn of the Antipodean Opaleye. Resists water, cleaning spells, and teenagers.

'Hey!' Charles cried indignantly, 'I resent that.'

'I think that means that it's resistant to the wear and tear that normally occurs around people between the ages of twelve and twenty... but whatever it was they intended, they certainly weren't concerned with being tactful,' Dominic said wryly.

Ginny smiled, and looked around. 'Well, where to next?' She glanced back at the bags following her down the street. 'Only my man, I think.'

'You might want to get your wand checked out too,' Dominic put in, 'I'm not too sure about the differences, and it would be nice to know.'

Ginny nodded. 'Okay. Should we do that before or after I get my man?'

'You know, you find that much too amusing.' Charles grinned.

Ginny shrugged. 'What can I say? I'm not used to shopping for men; it's a new experience!'

'The 'man' store is just ahead, why don't we stop there first?' Dom suggested, laughing.

'Righty-o, after you!'


	6. Truth and Men

The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.

Carl Jung

888

The four teenagers were lying in a circle: their heads positioned like the hub of a wheel and their bodies the spokes. The redhead would occasionally complain that the girls' hair was getting in his face, but aside from that, the atmosphere was almost peaceful.

'Your turn, Hermione. Truth or dare.' Frank grinned wickedly.

The other girl flushed. 'I cannot believe we're playing this. I haven't since I was what, six?'

'We know 'Mione,' the red-head piped up, 'you've told us at least twice since we started. We've told you that we're done with our homework, it's a sunny day, and we have nothing better to do; swallow your maturity and answer the question!' Frank winced a little at the boy's words. Didn't he get that Hermione was crushing on him? That she'd be at least a little hurt by his impatient tone?

'Okay, Ron, there's no need to get so worked up. Truth.'

Frank turned her head and whispered a question in Hermione's ear. The older girl sighed. Frank rolled her eyes. She would have liked to ask something to stir the waters around Ron and Hermione's relationship, but since her friend was being so obliging of her wishes, she figured that a nice benign question was the least she could give in return.

'Fine. I used to really like boiled celery. Ron. Truth or dare.'

'Dare.'

'All right. I dare you to... go and get your finished potions essay and let me look it over.' Ugh, what was it with these two. Wasting a perfectly good dare on his homework, of all things.

He was silent. Then, grumbling, Ron got up and started shuffling towards the house. Hermione followed him, saying something about 'Cheating' as she walked out of earshot.

Alone now, Frank and the quiet black-haired boy lay head-to-head. Staring into a particularly fluffy white cloud, she addressed him. Hermione had finally given her the opportunity she needed; it was time for the inquisition.

'So, Harry. Truth or dare?'

'Pardon?'

'Truth or dare.'

'Shouldn't we wait for... truth.'

Smiling at his apparent discomfort, Frank chose the question foremost in her mind and asked bluntly, 'Have you ever flirted with a girl?'

'I-- What?!'

'Have you ever flirted with a girl?'

He laughed a little breathlessly. 'As opposed to flirting with a guy?' Was he stalling or was that a sincere question?

'Erm. No.' Unless he was into that sort of thing? Damn, that would put a damper on the situation. She rephrased her question, 'have you ever _consciously_ flirted with a girl?'

'I don't know. Sure.' He sounded a bit more than uncertain. _Was_ he gay?

'All right. I'll take that as a no.'

'Hey, I had a girlfriend!' he cried indignantly. Girlfriends were good. Especially in a past tense.

'Right. Had...does that mean you're single?'

8

Harry tried to hear around the pounding in his ears. If he'd been asked later, he wouldn't have been able to say why he felt like he'd just run ten laps around the Quidditch pitch, or why his heart felt like it was permanently lodged in his throat. Was he single? Yes. Did he want to be single? It depended on... a lot of things.

'Yes,' he managed to say around the nervousness that had formed itself into a ball and settled neatly in his chest.

'Are you interested in someone right now?'

Great powers above, didn't the girl have any restraint? He thought he might pass out from sheer uncomfortableness, if that was possible. No doubt Hermione would chastise him for using a word that didn't exist, but at the moment, his subconscious was past caring.

Trying to make his voice sound calm and assured, he stared resolutely at the sky - where he could there had not been a red-tinged, female profile a second ago - and asked, 'Why does it matter?'

Not missing a beat, Frank responded, 'Well, assuming you were a) single, b) not interested in anyone at the moment, and c) don't find me completely repulsive, I would ask you out.'

'What?' came Harry's intelligent and witty repartee. He cursed his own eloquence. Really though, he'd known her for little more than a day! He'd known Cho for much longer than that and he's still been tongue-tied asking her to the Yule Ball. He'd known Ginny for, well...

'What do you mean, what?'

Harry's mind was drawing a blank. 'Eh. No. I mean, why?'

There was a thoughtful pause from Frank. 'Well. Originally, it was because you're cute and shy, and it was amusing to make you squirm. Then I learned about 'The Famous Harry Potter', and I felt bad because, no matter what you've been through, I don't know anyone who'd want to be surrounded by the figurative eggshells they've covered you with. Lastly, in the past two days, you've been quiet, reserved, polite, funny, mature, and inventive in the oddest situations. I've never met anyone who would try to bribe their chess pieces with cookie crumbs, and I doubt I'll ever meet another. You really are abominable at the game.'

Harry blinked. So her interest was part sadism, part pity, and part imagination.

'Right, well. _Are_ you interested?'

Harry said nothing.

Frank rolled over and levered herself up on her elbows. Harry, not wanting to be stared at, did the same. It was then that he realized his mistake. He and Frank were awfully close. Uncomfortably close.

'Do me a favour?' she asked calmly.

Harry, entranced by a pale freckle just below her left eye - strange that she should have just one -, gave a slow nod.

Frank confidently closed the space remaining between them. Harry's eyes flickered to her lips and back up to her eyes. They were green, he noticed detachedly, before they shut.

Kissing Frank was a lot different than kissing Cho. Drier, for one thing. His neck was sore from lying at a funny angle on the grass, and his elbows were cramped from digging into the ground. He realized that he hadn't been nearly so aware of his surroundings while kissing Cho. He had been almost completely focused on the fact that she was, indeed, kissing him. Now he felt as though this was any other part of him touching any other part of Frank, as one might brush elbows in a confined space. There wasn't anything to define it, to make it into the sensory, intimate experience that it was famed to be.

Abruptly, Frank pulled away. She was biting her bottom lip and had a thoughtful expression on her face. 'That was... informative. You like someone else, don't you?'

Harry blinked and his elbows gave way underneath him. He rolled over onto his back, and scrunched up his face when Frank's hair got in his eyes. Then he lied. 'I don't know. Do I?'

Frank laughed and flopped down beside him, staring once more into the clouds.

'Yes. You most certainly do. Well, either that or you're a phenomenally bad kisser. Never have I kissed someone who was so unenthusiastic about it. Tell me. Who's the lucky girl? Is it Hermione?'

At his scared and alarmed look, she guessed again.

'Is it Cho?'

He wondered how she knew about Cho, and confusedly shook his head.

'Lavender, Parvati?'

He shook his head again. Had she given Hermione a similar inquisition about all the girls his age?

'Mrs. Weasley?' Frank sounded amused.

'Er. No.'

'Then, my friend,' giving a title which Harry four himself very thankful to hear, 'I'm afraid that you've got it bad for a certain Ginny Weasley.'

Frowning, he asked, 'How do you figure?'

'Process of elimination. Well, no. Talked to Hermione about it. But think about how nervous you were when I first asked you if you'd flirted with a girl. Not only was panic your first reaction, but you took a little too long informing me of your singularity not to have an interest in someone.'

Harry blinked.

'Of course, I strongly suspected that Ginny fit in here somewhere. Not only did she make a particular point of mentioning you at our meeting, but when I arrived, your cheeks were slightly flushed, something which I'm sure related to her recent departure. Does any of this ring a bell?'

Harry blinked again. This was all feeling surreal.

'I'm, erm, I'm not saying that I do, but if you suspected that I had an... interest in Ginny, then why did you, uh, kiss me?'

'I had to be sure, of course.'

Harry blinked and she continued.

'I like being certain of something before I either give up on it, or go all out. It saves me disappointment, and that way I know I'm not wasting my time.' She pushed herself up on one elbow, and extended her hand. 'Friends?'

He turned over and grasped her hand. Giving her a half grin, and marveling at her ability to take said uncomfortableness out of a potentially awkward situation and turn it to her advantage, he sealed the agreement. 'Friends.'

8

'Hello, and welcome to Tellegence Communications and Processing. How may I help you?'

Ginny walked through the blue glass doorway and looked around her. There were glass signs hanging from the ceiling, each one the same colour as a group of tables and counters underneath. The sign nearest to her read 'Contiguier' in large, pale green letters, and below it there were several people talking to what appeared to be iridescent sales assistants.

'Hi, we're looking for a Magical Athenaeum Network. Preferably a 1.3 model.'

Dominic was speaking to the shimmering sales assistant who had approached them. The assistant smiled at them and turned on her heel, walking toward a group of blue tables under a sign that read 'Athenaeum Accounts'. Dominic followed the woman, and Ginny followed him, with Izzie and Charles close behind.

They stopped at the tables and the woman laid a hand on the counter-top. The skin on her hand flickered to a yellow, then back to blue. When she lifted her hand, a navy blue tube had appeared in the space it had previously vacated.

Dominic picked it up. He twisted one end of the tube, and opened it, so that they were connected horizontally by what looked like it might be a hinge. He then set it down so that two halves of the cylinder lay face down on the table. Having done so, Dominic slid a fingernail into a crack in one of the halves, lifted up a kind of switch and flicked it upwards.

Ginny's eyes widened. It was the oddest thing. With that small flick, spidery blue writing had appeared in the air above the navy device, and settled itself into words and tables in the air. His fingers flitted briefly over a few of the words, words that Ginny was at the wrong angle to see. It took her a moment to realize that he was speaking quietly to the shimmering woman on his right.

'What kind of processor does it use?' he asked, fiddling with the blue tables.

'An AEP, using etheric compound as its primary power source, emergency configuration set to raw electricity. If you'd like to change it, we have customer service lines open twenty-four hours a day.'

'Does it use standard archival settings, or the new networking?

'Networking.' The woman's smile flickered. Literally.

'What kind of security system does it have?'

'Voice and fingerprint ID, though the IRS is an definite option if you'd be willing to pay for the accompanying auxiliaries.'

Dom raised his eyebrows. 'What about storage capabilities? Do you have a guarantee?'

'Of course.' The woman's smile brightened again. 'We guarantee four deFirawlls of storage, but depending on what you have in mind for your MAN, the exact amount of dF's may vary.'

'One moment, please.' Dominic selected one of the blue words, and they all disappeared. He turned around and looked at Ginny.

'How does that sound?' he asked.

Ginny blinked. 'Not a lot like English, to tell you the truth.'

Dominic laughed. 'Just be thankful that Pascale's not here. She'd talk your ear off and she might or might not use words. Basically, what you're getting is a storage device that holds a lot of info, can receive and transmit messages, and runs on standard ether compound, and you get an Intense Retina Scan with the package. At least, I highly recommend that you get it. The IRS that is. It doesn't take long for your MAN to get rather personal, and you're going to want the best security features there are. And it's an attractive dark blue.' He grinned.

Ginny smiled back. 'Well, you sound as if you know what you're talking about... would you buy it?'

'Yes. As manipulatively friendly as they are, these guys are the best. They're at the top of the charts, and they're only going up. It helps that I kind of know what I'm talking about, and I don't think that they're selling us short, so this sounds like our best bet.' He pushed his hair out of his eyes, and she nodded.

'There are other, newer models, but this one has electric capabilities, and that's always a... plus. Besides, it's had the highest success ratings, and Pascale has almost the exact same one. Believe me, if she has it, then it's good. So, is that a yes?'

Ginny was rather curious about who this mysterious Pascale could be. She was obviously someone close to the three Canadians. Ginny looked around. Izzie and Charles had wandered off into the 'Contiguiers' section, and were heatedly discussing something with an iridescent man in overalls. She turned back to Dominic. 'Sure. How much is it?'

'One sec.' Dominic looked back to the sales assistant. 'We'll take it. One Magical Athenaeum Network, complete with IRS, four guaranteed dF's, an electric backup system, and merging, sharing, and searching capabilities. We'd also like it equipped with personalized messaging, unbreakable and water-proof charms, and a locator.'

The woman smiled widely and disappeared.

'What!' Ginny exclaimed. 'What happened?'

'She went to relay the configuration details. She's a hologram... a projection. The real store is underneath the building. They started using projections a few years ago because they didn't have enough qualified employees to manage both the creation and marketing of their products. They didn't have enough time to train new people, and then they were still a relatively small name, so they built an Intelligence Unit, and programmed it with four or five appearances, several languages, and the theoretical knowledge of everything they'd ever built. They connected the IntelliUnit to a Projector, magically animated their results, and Voilà! They changed their name, and suddenly they were bigger than French toast.'

Ginny looked at him.

'What? I did a research project on them last year. Besides which, Pascale practically worships them. Oh, look, here she comes.' His attention was focused on the space where the woman had disappeared, and was now flickering back into existence.

Once she had more or less materialized, she walked to where the MAN had been sitting before she left. It had vanished, though she seemed completely unconcerned. Ginny wondered, however, if this wasn't because the woman only had two expressions: happy and unconcerned. Probably, considering that she wasn't actually real...

Snapping out of her thoughts, Ginny watched as a small silver box appeared on the table. The glimmering woman produced a blue ribbon from somewhere, and it tied itself around the box.

'Will that be all for today?' she asked politely.

'Yes, thanks.'

'One hundred and two Dalle, please. You can register your MAN manually or with the help of our twenty-four hour customer service.'

Ginny reached for her purse. She opened it, unsure how she would get out one hundred of the purple coins without making a mess. She looked pleadingly at Dominic.

'Ask it. Specifically. Say: One hundred and two Dalle.'

Feeling ridiculous for talking to a bag, she said quietly, 'One hundred and two Dalle.'

Nothing happened, and she glanced uncertainly at Dom.

He smiled at her clueless expression. 'Open it and dump it into her hand.'

Ginny did as instructed. A stream of purple coins poured onto the woman's hand, and winked out of existence. It was rather pretty to watch; the clinking glass coins reflected the sales assistant's shimmering skin before disappearing.

When the bag was empty, Ginny closed it and reopened it. She was relieved to see it still appeared to contain the same amount as before...minus the spent coins, of course.

Dominic took the box from the woman's extended hand, and passed it to her. Ginny slipped it into one of the shopping bags that had been floating behind her. The sales assistant responded with a monotone, 'Have a nice day', and disappeared again as the two teenagers turned to leave. When they reached the door, Dominic looked over his shoulder. Izzie and Charles quickly caught up with them.

'Does Pascale have one of the new Contiguier yet?' Charles said, falling into step between Ginny and Dominic.

'Probably. We'll find out this weekend, I suppose. Are you coming?' he addressed Ginny.

'Pardon me?'

'Are you coming to visit Pascale? She lives up north with her grandmother, about a four and a half hour drive. We visit her every year before school starts.' Dominic grinned, 'If you don't mind spending four and a half hours in a car with the three of us, then you're welcome to come.'

'Why don't you Floo?' Ginny asked, confused.

'Well, a few years ago, the gates were down because someone had apparently tried to bring a domesticated moose through the fireplace. We couldn't apparate, and we didn't own a flying carpet so... we took the car.'

'It was brilliant,' Charles interjected.

'Indeed it was. Well, after that, it kind of became a tradition within tradition, and we've been doing it ever since.' Dominic turned left, and the girls followed.

'Basically, you can either stay here with my brother and his midget friends, or you can spend the weekend with the coolest people you will ever meet.' Charles made a show of weighing the two options, before her right hand dropped so far down that she staggered to stay standing.

'You know, you're right, your mum is really cool.' Ginny grinned.

This time Charles did fall over. As Izzie helped her back up, Charles looked desperately at Ginny. 'Please say you were kidding!'

Ginny nodded and rolled her eyes. 'Obviously.'

'Thank the powers that be! You really had me worried there.'

'Of course I'll come. Who is Pascale, just as a point of interest? You seem to talk about her a lot.'

'Pascale is a good friend of ours. She should be living in Cathedral, but when her parents—left, she went to live with her grandparents and sold the house here. That was about six years ago, and we've been visiting every summer since.' Izzie grinned and grabbed Ginny's elbow, pulling her to a stop.

'I believe you wanted to get your wand checked?'

On their left was a small green door set deeply into the wall. Ginny, who barely made five feet, would have had to duck to go through. There was a small round window toward the top, and horizontally below that was a wand. It was set into the wood, but there were small green particles floating inside it, just like Charles' wand.

Izzie let go her elbow and knocked on the door. The wand seemed to gain twice as many bubbles of colour, before Ginny heard a 'click' sound, and the door swung open.

They walked through the miniature doorway, and found themselves in a cheery little shop lit by several glowing globes and a roaring fireplace. A short woman with long grey hair piled messily on top of her head and tied up with a large scarf walked out from behind the counter in the back of the room.

'Hello, there. I'm Gladys of the Gossamer Guild, specialty being wands and other magical foci. What c'n I do for you?' She took a pair of square glasses out of a pocket in the front of her apron, and put them on, blinking to let her eyes adjust.

'Well, I've seen you three before,' she said, peering at Charles and the twins, 'Everything still satisfactory, I trust?'

They assured her that, yes indeed, their wands were still working excellently, and looked expectantly at Ginny. Momentarily at a loss for words, Ginny pulled out her wand and held it out in front of her.

'Ooh, that's an Ollivander, isn't it?' Gladys pushed up her glasses further on her nose and plucked Ginny's wand from her fingers.

'Hazelwood, twelve and a half inches, with a core of dragon heartstring and... what is that?'

Ginny blushed at the woman's harsh tone. 'It's a—um— a feather from a young Occamy...'

Gladys raised a black eyebrow. 'An Occamy? Really. I had no idea that old Ollivander was experimenting with imported ingredients. That sneaky, bloviating, Strigiformesical excuse for a wizard." Despite her string of insults, she sounded pleased and examined Ginny's wand with fondness. "Do you find that this wand works well for you?'

Ginny nodded a bit uncomfortably. 'I was hoping you could tell me what kind of differences there are between, say, my wand and Charles' wand. Besides the obvious, of course,' she added hastily.

The woman handed Ginny back her wand and took off her glasses, polishing them absent-mindedly.

'Well,' she began, 'I suppose the main difference would be the wand core and the method that I use to imbue it with the necessary qualities for focusing magic. Ollivander uses naturally magical substances, which not only amplifies the user's natural power, but also suppresses potential magical development to avoid fatiguing the caster. It does most of the work for them, leaving them with no real idea about what goes on while casting spells.' Upon seeing Ginny's rather embarrassed look, she corrected herself. 'There is nothing wrong with it. In fact, you could say that they relate in rather the same way as a standard and an automatic.'

Ginny blinked.

'All right, wrong comparison. Think of it as making your bed. You know how to do it, and you can do it perfectly, even if your eyes were closed, but when you open them, you become aware of the details, such as how many wrinkles there are in the duvet, or how far it's pulled up over the pillow. Using one of my wands takes longer to learn because there isn't anything helping you; they simply direct the power, as opposed to enhancing it. People who begin on an Ollivander-type wand can condition themselves to use their wands differently. In fact, it occurs more often than you'd think. I take an academic interest in this, as I'm sure you'll understand, and, statistically, for converting wand users, find that there is often a escalation in power level as they tone their abilities and exercise faculties that would have otherwise remained untapped.'

'All right...'

Gladys looked towards Izzie. 'How long have you had your wand?'

'About six years, I think.'

Gladys stuck her glasses atop her hair. 'And in that time, what have you learned?'

Izzie frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'Well, what kinds of skills have you learned?'

'I can clean, I can summon, I can vanish, I can defend myself, I can transfigure, I have a mean tickling jinx... stuff like that?'

'Sort of. When did you lean to levitate things?'

'In level one. Towards the end of the year.'

'All right.' Gladys looked shrewdly at Izzie, then glanced towards Ginny. 'What did they tell you was the most important element to casting a spell?'

'Intention.' Izzie said automatically.

'That's right. Although you still need words and a wand movement, it's the intention you put into it that really dictates what your spell is going to do. If you intend for your leaf to go floating up to the ceiling, then it's likely to do so. That, is the main difference between your wand,' she pointed to Ginny's hazelwood, 'and yours,' she gestured toward Charles. 'What you intend to do, and what you're actually saying. Unsurprisingly, this is very similar to wandless magic, which is harder, as there is no channeling agent... but anyway, that's not important right now. Watch.'

She whipped out a wand from somewhere in her hair, and caught her glasses before they fell, placing them carefully on the floor. 'I'm going to levitate my glasses, observe.'

She pushed up her sleeves and focused on the spectacles. 'Evanesco.'

Ginny frowned, surprised. She'd used the wrong incantation. Ginny's frown deepened when she saw that, unexpectedly, the glasses were rising into the air.

'How did you do that?' she asked, once Gladys had plucked them out of the air and nestled them in her hair once again.

'Simple. Although I used the words to vanish an object, I intended for my glasses to rise, and since that is the principal determinate of any charm, that's what they did. Is it making more sense to you now?'

Ginny nodded. She understood the words, of course, but whether or not she'd be able to do it....'So it will work with my wand, too?'

'If given enough practice, I'd say that you should gain proficiency soon enough. Ollivander's wands are not intended to function solely on intent,' she smiled at her small pun, then continued, 'but there is no reason they cannot be taught to do so. Magic is a wonderfully malleable medium. There's no telling what we might do with it. Wizards in this day and age have only touched the proverbial tip of the iceberg when it comes to magic's immeasurable possibilities. As it is, we are teetering on the brink between enlightenment and destruction. We know enough to destroy everything we have ever acknowledged as real, but at the same time, we know enough to release a veritable reservoir of magical knowledge that we may have only ever had access to in the Old times. It all depends.' And then she was silent. What a bizarre woman. Ginny could only presume that she was being melodramatic. Maybe it was a trait common of all wand-makers.

'Thank-you, that was very...' Ginny trailed off.

'Informative.' Charles finished for her, grabbing her elbow, and steering her towards the door.

'We'll stop by again if anything strange happens,' Dominic called over his shoulder.

'Bye.'

'Have a nice day,' came Gladys' half interested farewell as they left the shop.

'Well, it was interesting,' Dominic quipped as they began walking back the way they'd come, 'I had no idea that our wands were so different. Are you going to try to start using yours like one of ours? With intent, and whatnot? Or better yet, like a standard?' He grinned.

'You didn't grow up anywhere near Drifters, did you?' Charles asked, scuffing her feet.

'No.' Ginny said. 'Nowhere near. I live in the country... sort of. There's a Muggle town nearby, but we rarely go in for anything except food.'

'Ah, well. It can't be helped,' Izzie shrugged.

'We'll just have to expose you to more non-magical customs while you're here,' Dominic suggested.

Charles grinned, obviously getting ideas. 'And we can start with Thrifting!'

Izzie laughed. 'Dom, I'm blaming you completely. You got her started, now you have to get her out of it.'

Dominic's eyes widened, and he held out his hands helplessly. 'What harm can it do?'

Ginny blinked. 'Where's Thrifting?'

'No, no. Thrifting's not a place. It's a way of life. Besides, we haven't gone shopping for clothes, and you definitely need some for this year. Do you have a dress for the dance?'

Ginny blinked again. 'There's a dance?'

'Ooh yes. Every year we have a Masquerade on All Hallow's Eve. Everyone gets dressed up and disguised, and we have a delightful time. Of course, you might not want to get that now, since then we'd know what you'd look like. You might also want to make one. Then again, I don't know if we'll have time in Textiles this year, since we're supposed to be working on Shaping, but you never know.'

They'd come to a short alley with graffiti on the walls. One design was a purple man who stood slouched with his hands jammed in his pockets. He was looking down at something Ginny couldn't see. She looked up again, and made a startled noise. They weren't in 13th Avenue any more.

Charles and Dominic looked sideways at her. 'Anything wrong?' he asked.

'Where did we go?' She said looking around at the short alley they'd just come out of. It ended in a white brick wall. The lugubrious purple man stood beside it, still looking at nothing.

'We just came out of the magical part. It's still 13th Avenue, though.'

Ginny looked up the street. There was a grocery store across from them, and a magazine store to their right called 'Buzzword'. There was an empty lot on their left with a small wooden bench sitting in the shade of a tall white-washed building.

A man in a tweed jacket and a beret walked past them carrying a guitar case on his back, and his shoes clipping on the cement.

8

'Harry, will you pass me the gravy?' Frank said, leaning against him, trying to reach the saucer.

Harry automatically stiffened and grabbed the dish, setting it down quickly beside her. Hadn't she said they'd be just friends? Why was she still doing this? He glanced confusedly at her face, and she winked.

'Thank-you ever so much. You're so helpful.' She smiled conspiratorially.

Harry blinked. At least he thought it was a conspiring type of smile.

Frank poured a small portion of gravy on her mashed potatoes, and handed it back to Harry. 'Put this back, won't you?' She wiped a stray droplet of gravy from the rim of her plate and licked her finger, giving him a small smirk.

Harry turned back to his meal. Staring confoundedly into his own potatoes, he puzzled about the mystery that was Frank. She shifted beside him, her leg grazing his as she re-arranged her feet.

When she was settled, she lifted her glass from the table, and looked into it. She sighed, and leaned over, whispering in his ear.

'Oh dear. Would you hand me the orange juice, Harry?' She pointed to the pitcher on his right.

Harry frowned more deeply, and lifted the container, passing it to her. Her fingers brushed his, and he bristled. He leaned closer to her, and she didn't move away.

'What are you trying to do?' he hissed, trying not to move his lips too much, as Fred and George were being awfully quiet where they were sitting across the table.

She grinned evilly and raised an eyebrow. 'Being friendly of course. Lighten up.' Her grin widened and she glanced sideways and giggled, nudging him softly on the arm. He flushed, and she glanced once again toward the twins who were trying and failing to lean forward in an inconspicuous manner.

'Get it?' she mouthed, and smirked.

Harry was once again struck by how completely out of his depth he was, and returned to eating, his thoughts tripping over each other in their confusion.


	7. Daisy, Daisy

_No trumpets sound when the important decisions of our life are made. Destiny is made known silently._

_Agnes De Mille_

8

'Transfer, please.'

Charles boarded the blue and white bus, and handed Ginny a slip of pink paper.

'It just makes sense, don't you think,' Izzie commented, once the four had found seats in the back of the bus, 'that the number thirteen bus should go down Thirteenth Avenue? They're truly complementary.'

Charles rolled her eyes. 'We've been through this, Iz, and the reason they go so well together is because the bus was named for the street! Duh.'

While Izzie and Charles were engaged in a heated debate about the number thirteen, Dominic leaned over to talk to Ginny.

'They do this every time we take this bus. Gods know why. Luckily, there's only the two of them, normally Frank gets involved too... we got kicked off the bus once, come to think of it.'

Ginny laughed, imagining the scenario. 'So, where exactly are we going?'

'Shopping,' Dominic said heavily.

Ginny raised her eyebrows.

He continued, 'Charles has a rabid interest in what she calls Thrifting. Capitalised. It involves targeting specific consignment stores in both magical and non-magical streets and picking through them with a metaphorical fine-toothed comb. Her favorite stores are on Scarth, which is the only non-trafficked Drifter street in the city. In fact, if you follow 13th down far enough on the magical side, you come to the end, and it turns left directly onto Scarth Street, something that is completely impossible on the Drifter side. It's an interesting place, though. Nothing on 13th, but cool nonetheless.'

'So, it's like buying second-hand clothes?' Ginny asked, confused. She'd been subject to hand-me-downs and the like all her life, why would Charles actively seek them out?

'Hush!' He looked quickly at Charles, but she was still talking heatedly with Izzie. Lowering his voice, he said, 'Technically, yes, it is. But Charles sees it more like visiting essential, if temporary, intervals on the road to Thrifting enlightenment. If there were more than one of her, I'd call it a cult. Do you have a problem with second-hand clothes? If so, I suggest you don't tell her, and just happen not to buy anything.'

Ginny shook her head. 'No, I have no problem with it, I've just never met anyone who was happy about buying old things.' She'd definitely grown accustomed to buying or inheriting clothes that had seen at least a little use, but didn't relish it.

'I wouldn't say they're old. At least, not in the places we're going to. Think of it as clothes with character-- Oh!'

He reached across Ginny and pulled the string against the window. There was a _ding!_ at the front of the bus, and it pulled to a stop in front of a statue in the form of some sort of cow.

'It's a buffalo,' Dominic said, following her gaze. 'C'mon,' he interrupted, neatly ending Izzie and Charles' discussion.

Charles, overwhelmed by imminent Thrifting opportunity, flounced out of the bus with an automatic 'Thank-you' to the driver.

Following her at a slightly calmer pace, the other three teens waited for the walk-light and crossed the street.

Ginny immediately headed for the 'buffalo' statue. A far cry from the various traditional statues and sculptures that inhabited Hogwarts or the Ministry, this one was two-dimensional: formed of three flat layers, one white, one brown, and one dark red.

Dominic came up behind her. The breeze, which Ginny had barely noticed before, seemed much stronger - almost trapped - between the two reflective towers guarding either side of Scarth, which, according to the blue sign above her, is where they were. He was trying to hold back his whipping hair with one hand, while his other rummaged around in his pockets.

'It's supposed to represent the flesh, blood, and bone of the buffalo who inhabited this land before Europeans came. They used to number in the millions and roam wild, hunted by the nomad people. After, they were killed for sport, and their bodies were left to waste. In fact, this part of Saskatchewan used to be called Pile of Bones. It was changed to Regina when it became capital of the North-west Territories, land that is now the western provinces. Canada was a British colony, so it was called Regina after Queen Victoria, and as you should know, Regina is Latin for...?'

'Queen.' Ginny replied without thinking.

Dominic grinned. 'There. That's your history lesson for today. Now, if only I could find my toque.'

He opened another pocket, and Ginny was surprised to see his hand disappear up to his forearm. He gave a triumphant grin, and pulled out a turquoise knitted hat with a pale yellow stripe just off center. Jamming it on his head and pinning his long hair away from the exuberant wind's clutches, he looked around and spotted Izzie and Charles sitting on a bench a few meters away.

'Are we done sightseeing yet?' Charles called despairingly, 'Tatters and Treasures is so close I can feel it, and you're looking at the scenery!'

Laughing, Ginny and Dom caught up with the girls.

'Finally!' Charles cried, bounding up and away. Ginny walked more slowly between the twins.

'Is she always this excitable?' Ginny asked, thinking that she'd yet to see Charles' demeanor resemble anything close to sedate.

They laughed. 'No,' Izzie explained, 'only when we're going thrifting. She spent most of July working at a stationery shop in a quiet end of 13th, so she's bound to be a little jumpy, what with having actual money to spend.'

'Not,' Dominic reflected, 'that that's ever stopped her before. She has an incredible talent for recalling obscure occasions of various people owing her money.'

Ginny grinned, and pushed through the red door with a patched shawl thrown over a treasure chest imprinted into the front.

Charles was already inside and had an arm draped with a multitude of items, including a long, purple, wide-wale corduroy coat. She looked up when Ginny walked in, and maneuvered her way between shelves until she was standing next to her. Ushering the English girl away from the twins, she leaned over to whisper confidentially, 'I, my thrift-less British friend, have decided to take you under my proverbial wing, and to show you the secret of Thrifting.'

Passing Ginny the pile of clothes, and linking their arms, Charles led her to the middle of the one-room store, and used her free arm to gesture expansively. 'All this, Ginny. You have over one hundred Canadian dollars, and the best thrift store in Regina to peruse at your leisure.' She reminded Ginny of an uncle bequeathing his fortune to a favorite nephew.

'First thing's first, however. Go with what you need. Want can come after. Uniform. Where's your school list?'

Ginny passed the clothes back, pulled the list out of her purse and unfolded it. The only things listed beneath the subtitle 'Uniforms' that she didn't have were dress robes, black pants (3), and solid-colour shirts (opt.). That was, if her white Oxford didn't count as a solid colour.

'All right. Lets start with pants. Onward, brave lady! We are on a quest most daring.' Charles grinned, and Ginny followed suite, unable to keep a straight face at the other girl's horrible British accent.

Charles looped her free arm through Ginny's and dragged her to the back of the store. Feeling like any moment the Canadian was going to break into song, Ginny looked apprehensively at Charles. She glanced around, and saw the twins sitting on a wicker bench near the door. They were leaning against one other, and talking in low voices. Charles' sharp voice caught her attention again.

'What style? Fabric? Cut?' She was sizing Ginny up, and made the other girl spin around to get a good estimate.

'I think you'd be about a...four? Five, maybe?'

The first pair Charles picked off the rack were grey, and slightly frayed at the bottoms.

'Now see these? These are not a good choice. Can you tell me why?' Without waiting for Ginny to answer, she continued, 'because they are _old_. The goal of Thrifting is not to collect old, ugly clothes as some people seem to think...' she glared at the oblivious twins, 'but to find clothes that still have their original essence and unique flair. It's a fine art," she finished matter-of-factly.

Guiding Ginny to another rack, they began selecting a variety of black pants. Some were wide, some tight, another pair were similar to the ones Charles had been wearing the day before. A particular favorite of Ginny's were the wide-leg charcoal pair that stopped just above the ankle and had a long pocket sown into the stitching along the leg. Something, she thought, which would be useful for storing her wand. Once Charles was almost completely covered by articles of clothing, the two moved on to shirts.

Various signs along the walls cited blanket prices that made Ginny smile. Pants were only four, and shirts three. How nice it was not to worry about money, nor about what people would think if they saw her in a second-hand shop. She looked down to where her hand had been automatically sorting through clothes, and stopped when she came to a deep red V-neck. She held it up for Charles.

'What do you think?'

Charles peered over the top of the pile of clothes in her arms, and nodded appreciatively. She adjusted the weight of the clothes, and Ginny, realizing how much it all must weigh, quickly took out her wand and unobtrusively muttered a weight-reducing charm.

'Thanks,' Charles said, transferring the pile to one arm so the other could massage her back, 'I sometimes forget how many things can be done with magic. Might be genetic; Mum's always doing silly little things by hand, and she hasn't even been brainwashed by Gramme. Pascale's Grandma, that is. She says that there's no reason to use magic if your two hands can serve just as well. I've been conditioned.' She grinned, and Ginny tossed the red shirt onto the pile.

Ten or fifteen minutes later, Ginny had taken half the pile, and they were maneuvering their way among the aisles again, trying not to knock off any more clothes off the racks. Ginny was following Charles, and since she had taken the larger half of the pile, could hardly see where she was going. When she stubbed her toe hard on something solid that made a hollow wooden sound, she bit her lip to stop herself from voicing the multitude of curses that came to mind. Instead, she allowed herself a small 'Ow!' through clenched teeth.

Feeling carefully now, she walked around the box, which is what she could now see it was, and scowled at it, vowing to return and seek her revenge...after she'd divested herself of an armload of clothes.

8

Ron opened the drawer to his desk and fetched out his hurriedly-written essay, smudged in two places but otherwise complete. Of all the things Hermione could have dared him to do - that he would probably even wanted to do - she asked about his homework? She was so confusing. In general, Ron found girls to be a little barmy, but figuring out Hermione was a hundred times worse than any of Snape's nastiest essays, including the one he was now proffering to the brunette sitting on his bed.

She didn't even look at it. There was a small wrinkle between her eyebrows that Ron knew meant she was conflicted and/or trying to understand something--possibly both. Her lips were slightly pursed, and if she'd been glaring at him with the expression that she had leveled at his poster of Beatrice Bueller, he'd have been more than a bit nervous. As it was, the beater had casually raised her club in one orange-gloved fist to cover half her face while looking decidedly unsettled. Ron cleared his throat.

She turned to look at him, eyebrows raised, as if she'd forgotten he was there. Her eyes settled on the roll of parchment and the wrinkle reappeared.

"I didn't come to look at your essay, Ron."

"What?"

"Honestly, Ron, are you blind? Frank's going to ask Harry out."

He blinked. That was... not entirely a surprise, but still a little strange. "But she's only been here a couple of days! Why would she want to go out with him?" Then another thought occurred to him. "And we left them alone together?!"

"Of course, Ron. She could hardly do it with us a few feet away. To answer your other question, I guess she finds something about him attractive. That is generally why two people begin a romantic relationship."

Now it was his turn to frown. Why was it always Harry who got the girls? He was thin, with an angular face and always looked a bit like a wet dog with his hair at all angles and his bony frame swimming in his robes... or clothes, since it was summer. Hell, he even attracted _dead_ girls, if the change in Myrtle's moaning was any clue. Ron had freckles and a deep jealous streak, but nothing that was in any way better or worse than Harry. Maybe Harry had some sort of magnetism. Ron's dad had had a brief romance with magnets in between his fascination for two then three-prong plugs, and he seemed to remember something about animals having it. Distracted by this thought, he sunk down beside Hermione, the softness of the mattress pushing their shoulders together. He thought that he wouldn't mind being able to attract girls. Or, maybe just one girl. Yes, one would be enough. Well, perhaps a particular one.

He was jerked from his musings when he felt Hermione's bare arm brush against his. "Do you... do you not approve of Frank? I thought you two were getting along well."

"No, she's fine. Great, actually. I just can't see why she wants Harry. I mean, he's my best mate and all, so I suppose I should be happy for him, but I don't see what he has that's better than me." Hermione turned her head a little and he could feel her eyes on him.

"Are _you_ interested in Frank? I mean, attracted to?" He could hear the surprise in her voice and found that it rankled a little.

"Well, no, but would it be so surprising if I were?" He said, turning to face her. After all, there was a _chance_ that a girl like Frank would settle for a guy like him.

Suddenly, Hermione refused to meet his gaze and answered in an uncharacteristically small voice. "Well, no, I suppose not. She _is_ new and funny and pretty as _well_ as being smart."

Wait, what? There was definitely something not quite right with Hermione, but he'd be buggered if he knew what it was. She looked almost embarrassed, as if her favourite professor had just taken points and assigned her a week's worth of detentions. Actually, no, she wasn't quite that mortified, but it was a near thing. So he did what he usually did when he didn't entirely understand something. He made an arse out of himself.

"What are you _talking_ about?"

Hermione's subdued attitude vanished in an instant as her cheeks flushed with anger and irritation. Her eyes narrowed, and though he was by far more familiar with this side of her, it did make him a little wary, and he leaned back a little, abruptly realizing how very close he was to her growing ire.

"Why must you be so obtuse?! I understand that boys are almost entirely preoccupied by breasts and a pretty face, but it's been _years_! I thought that after Victor you might speak up; am I really going to have to spell it out for you? I don't like taking risks, Ron. Especially not when they could literally cost me one of my best friends, but I hate _not_ knowing even more. I find you attractive. Assuming that is the impetus for a non-platonic relationship, is there the slightest chance that the sentiment is reciprocated?"

Ron felt the tell-tale prickle of heat behind his ears that gradually spread until it covered his entire face and quite possibly--though he'd never been in a position to check--his entire body. He swallowed and fought a losing battle with his blush; her eyes were burning into his and he was gratified to see a flush of pink still high on her cheekbones. At least he wasn't the only one. He ran through what she'd said in his head. He wasn't entirely sure about some of the words in that last bit, but he definitely got the part about her being attracted to him. He thought back. And she'd said something about that being why two people start a romantic relationship. So she... wanted to know if he was interested. In a more-than-friends way. He felt another wave of heat as he blushed again. Bloody hell. She didn't actually think he'd turn her down, did she?

His memory supplied him with another quip from their conversation, this time about Frank. _New and funny and pretty as well as being smart_. Well that made a little more sense now. She was comparing herself to Frank and feeling insecure about the conclusions she drawn. With this new piece of emotional insight he fought the urge to tsk, feeling that this was not the time to start channeling his mother.

"Hermione, why would you try to compare yourself to Frank?"

He said it as gently as possible, but the stricken expression that found its way onto her face soon after was not what he'd been going for.

"Oh, _so_ sorry, Ronald," she bit out acidly. "How silly of me to think that I could compare." She stood quickly, making for the door, "Maybe I should have waited a few years until you began to think with the head that actually has a brai-- What are you-- Get out of my way."

Ron, who'd been put on alert the moment she'd called him by his proper name, had sprung up behind her and dashed for the door, throwing himself against it. No way was he going to let her leave after saying that. He knew that he was totally clueless about some things, and that many of those things involved Hermione, but he also knew that if he let her walk out in the state she was in that their friendship may be permanently damaged.

"That wasn't what I meant!" he said in a rush, though in reality, he wasn't entirely sure what he'd said to upset her. Given, however, that he'd only said one thing, and that it had caused such a level of irateness, it probably hadn't come off the way he'd intended.

"No? Well then what did you mean, Ron, because I heard you pretty clearly. I tell you something very important, leaving me uncomfortably vulnerable after _telling_ you that I don't like taking such risks, and you ask me why I'm under the delusion that I could possibly compare to Frank?!" Her hands were balled into fists and her eyes narrowed. She bit her lip and for an awful second Ron thought she might start crying.

He instinctively reached out to her, though she backed away, and he fought the desire to crush her to him and tell her how, for such a smart girl, she could be so incredibly stupid.

"Hermione, it was never a question of you comparing to Frank. No, wait," he said, when she opened her mouth to speak, "I've only known Frank a few days, and yes, she's pretty and funny and whatnot, but she's not you. I've known you for years and you're so much more to me than she is. I didn't even think to make the comparison." He smiled slightly when he saw that Hermione was no longer glaring and that she'd wrapped her arms loosely around herself as she listened to what he had to say.

"I'm sorry I made you upset. Sometimes, although I know what I'm saying and I know what I mean, I don't think about what it might mean to somebody else. I, er, also find you attractive." And despite knowing that she felt the same way he couldn't stop himself from stammering and blushing harder as he said the words. He looked away then, rubbing the back of his neck. It felt so hot under his hand that he wondered briefly if it would glow in the dark.

"Oh." His eyes snapped back to her figure at the sound of her voice and he saw that she was smiling a smug-looking smile. So she wasn't angry with him anymore? "Well, then." She licked her lips, and took a few steps closer to him. She was looking at her hands, which were twisting around one another in front of her abdomen. When Hermione had more or less closed the distance between them, she looked up at him through her eyelashes with a gaze that has been hampering men's higher levels of cognitive processing for millennia. When she asked him in an almost meek voice a few moments later if he would kiss her, Ron wouldn't have been able to string together a coherent objection if his life had depended on it. Not that he'd have wanted to. No, right then, if kissing Hermione meant death, then he would not be long for the world.

8

_Dear Ginny,_

_I finally asked Ron out. It was... as perfect as could be expected, given two people of volatile temperament. I'll spare you the details, given your relation, though I finally understand how Parvati and Lavender could spend hours gushing about their latest boyfriend. It's a crazy, irrational urge, and I'm half-tempted to Floo Luna to scratch the itch, but I'm really not sure that either of us would be adept at such frivolousness._

_But how are you? I trust you made it there safely and that the Canadians are nice people. It's such an opportunity Gin, a chance to learn all about another culture: a culture that is almost directly descended from ours, and yet, is completely different. I've read everything I could find about it, of course, but Hogwarts' archive on other countries and their magical practices is maddeningly paltry. This means, of course, that you're going to have to tell me everything about where you're living in Saskatchewan, and what the people are like, Frank's family... Have you met any of her friends? She's got the strangest fashion sense; I have no idea where she could possibly get her clothes. Frank is really unusual, but I think she'll fit in just fine at Hogwarts. She seems very adaptable. I'm still trying to decide whether or not it's a good thing that Fred and George decided not to move into their shop until the fall...they seem to get along wonderfully with Frank, but at the same time, they're remarkably alike, and I worry that perhaps three heads could be so much more hazardous to my mental health than two._

_Well, Ron's just walked in and is trying to read over my shoulder, so I'll cut this letter short and send you another soon. We haven't really told Harry anything yet; he seems rather preoccupied with Frank. Not that he's normally very observant, but it's a little peculiar him not knowing, you know?_

_Lots of love, hope to hear from you soon,_

_Hermione_

_xxo_

8

'Don't become too attached to her, you know we can't afford to let her get any closer.'

The dark-haired twins sat together, speaking in low tones.

'I know, you don't have to remind me. It's just that she's... I don't know. There's something about her.'

'No, there isn't. You just want there to be something about her. You've seen for yourself, she doesn't affect the field any differently than she ought to. It's just wishful thinking.'

'I'm not so sure you're right about that, Iz. Look at the way Charles has taken to her!'

'No. The notion isn't even worth entertaining for curiosity's sake. Charles is just fickle. Forget it, Dom. The sooner she finds someone else to hang around with, the better. I can hardly wait for September.'

'That's a little harsh. Are you purposely talking like Pascale? Just because you know that I'd listen to her if she were here?'

'Of course, and we all know why you'd listen to her.'

'Are you implying something, sister dearest?'

'Certainly not, brother of mine.'

'That is fortunate for you.'

'Did I detect a threat in that comment.'

'Surely not. I, after all, have no idea where you keep your diary.' He paused. 'But I still think that maybe…'

'No.'

'But--'

'No.'

8

'Pawn to E-5.'

Harry stared at the chessboard on the seat between him and Frank.

'You know,' he said conversationally, 'it's a good thing you're an even worse chess player than I am, or I'd never beat anyone. Bishop to F-3. Check.'

'Dammit, um, Rook to E-4...'

'Knight to G-2. Checkmate.' Harry grinned. 'It's so nice not to be losing for once.'

'Hey! I beat you yesterday!'

He waved it aside. 'Yeah, yeah, sure. But I won today.'

She laughed. 'Of course.'

Her smile fading, she kicked off her sandals and brought her knees up to her chest, resting her feet on the edge of the bench they were sitting on. Looking out of the porch and into the darkening sky, she asked, 'What's it like at Hogwarts?'

He herded the chessmen back into their box and set both box and board on the deck beneath them. Then, swinging his feet up so he faced her, he said, 'It's big. That was one of the things that struck me most the first time I saw it. But it's also beautiful. It's too bad that you won't be able to take the boats with the first-years, because it's one of the most incredible things I've ever seen. Why do you ask?'

'I'm just... I don't know, it sounds silly, and I haven't even said it yet. Never mind.'

'No, really. It can't be that silly. Not if it's bothering you.'

'No, nothing's bothering me.'

'I doubt that.'

'What? Why?' She looked up, confused.

He gave her a wry smile. 'Because your toes are sitting underneath my leg and you haven't smirked once.'

She started and blushed. 'Sorry, they were cold. I didn't even notice.' She started to retract them, but he caught her ankles mid-movement.

'No, it's okay, I don't mind. I mean, I'm a fine source of heat, and I don't mind sharing. Provided, in return, that you be a little more subtle with your, mm, charades, shall we say.'

'Well. That almost sounded intelligent.'

'It did, didn't it?'

Frank grinned and wiggled her toes a little more snugly under his calf.

'Thanks for the heat... I can't make any promises, but for the most part, I'll make sure not too many people witness my 'charades' as you accurately dubbed them.'

Harry sighed in relief, then seemed to remember something. 'You never told me why you were asking. About Hogwarts?'

'Oh. Well. I'm, I guess I'm a bit nervous. Maybe a little bit scared.'

Harry frowned and seemed to lean towards her sympathetically. 'Why?'

'I don't know. I told you it was silly. I'm never nervous for anything, usually.'

He said nothing.

'Maybe... I'm just more comfortable in places where there are people I know. I mean, at Hogwarts, people in my level will have known each other for five years, if not longer. When I started school at Opasquia, I already has a great group of friends, and now I don't want to be the odd one out.'

Harry looked at her and smiled. 'You know, when I was first accepted into Hogwarts, I was petrified that I would arrive at this wonderful new place, and that they wouldn't have me on the list, or they'd tell me that it was all a horrible mistake. I wanted to believe in magic. I wanted something special, something that was all my own. Besides,' he gave her a playful nudge, 'you won't be alone, you'll know us.'

She gave him a half-hearted grin in return. 'Promise?'

'Well,' he said in an attempt at dark humour, 'unless Voldemort manages to kill me in the mean time, I promise you that I will be there when you get Sorted. Hopefully you'll make it into Gryffindor. It's by far the best. Are you going to try out for Quidditch? We have some openings on the team this year, especially if you want to try out for Chaser.'

Frank leaned back and wiggled her toes, thinking.

'Hey, no wiggling!' Harry laughed as her toes tickled the under-side of his leg.

'Sorry, sorry. Maybe. I don't know. I've never been on a Quidditch team before. At home, though, I was on a Jo'Ouqye team. Pretty damn good at it, too. This year I would have gotten to move up and play in Class Aphesl. Last year we were Class Batre and beat out all the other teams, hands down. It'll be tough to find replacements for this year. They'll need two of them if Morris is still out of commission come September.'

Seeing Harry's blank look, she asked, 'Have you played?'

'Er, no. What is it?'

Frank grinned, 'Awesome. It's so much fun. And you'll have the very best teacher. Moi.'

She laughed at his blank expression. 'Okay, then I'll show you.'

She grabbed him by the wrists and hauled him off the porch and onto the cool grass. The sun had set and their way was illuminated by the lights from inside the Burrow, as the stars had yet to come out.

She motioned for him to stand still, and backed up three paces, facing him. She shut her eyes.

'Okay, now move.'

Confused, Harry took a step to his left.

'No, move more.'

He walked silently until he was looking at the back of her head.

'C'mon Harry, you can be a bit more inventive than that.'

Harry tip-toed around her to the left, then circled her again going right, and alternated directions until he was right of her, then lowered himself to the ground and crawled a few meters away, before laying flat. He felt utterly ridiculous. Frank was just standing there, not moving, but when he opened his mouth to ask her what on earth he was doing, she spun around and released the spell. He sat bolt upright. His glasses were hovering mockingly a few inches above his head.

He snatched them out of the air and jammed them back on his nose. 'What did you do?'

She smiled sweetly. 'That's basically what we do in Jo'Ouqye.'

He remained confused. 'You close your eyes?'

'No, it's all about finding your opponent's magical signature and kind of 'honing in', thus pinpointing their exact location. You were easy. Normally, people don't glow quite so much. I'm guessing that it's because you've never had any experience shielding your magical output. Never fear. I will teach you everything you need to know!' She finished with a dramatic flourish which, had she been there, Ginny would have recognized as pure Charles.

'Hold up,' Harry questioned, wrinkling his forehead in concentration, 'you're saying that I have some kind of magical aura?'

'Yeah. That's why your wand works best with you; it's become ingrained with your magical signature. Your 'aura', as you called it, is just a visual representation of that signature. Well, mostly visual.' She frowned.

'So why can't I see it?'

'Because, I'm guessing that your wand is different somehow than the ones we use in Canada. Our spells are created not only with incantations, but also intention and magical prowess. Yours appear to be more incantation oriented. It doesn't mean you can't learn though. Here, take out your wand.'

He pulled it out and laid it alongside hers, which was on the grass in front of her.

'All right, now close your eyes; you don't really use them for this anyway.'

He took off his glasses and did as she instructed.

'Okay, now take a deep breath and try to align your body.'

Harry frowned. She elaborated, 'That means that you have to set your body in its natural positioning in order to ease the flow of magic. Here, like this.'

Harry felt her kneel down behind him and gently press two fingers into the center of his back. He reflexively straightened and she laid a hand on the back of his neck.

'No, relax.' Her voice was firm.

He willed himself to relax and was surprised to once again feel her nudge the middle of his back.

'Relaxing does not always mean slouching. It's natural to sit straight, but unfortunately our society disagrees. Okay, now lift your head.'

She gently rested her fingers behind his ears and eased them backwards until his chin lifted just a fraction.

'There,' she said slowly. 'Now, can you feel the difference?' She lowered her hands and reclaimed her spot in front of him.

Harry, feeling intensely aware of his surroundings, the back of his neck prickling slightly where her hands had been, nodded slowly. There was something--right--about the way that his arms seemed to rest perfectly with the shoulder blades, and that his head seemed loose and comfortable on his neck.

'Now, what can you feel?'

Harry cast about behind his eyelids, trying to imagine the position of Frank's body and picture her there. His brow furrowed, and he could feel a slight headache coming on. Frank's voice reminded him not to tense up. Carefully he smoothed his expression and tried again. Then there was a flicker and for a moment he saw a flash of illumination in his mind's eye. Not sure if he'd imagined it, he opened his eyes and looked at Frank.

"I _think_ I saw something, just for a second. Kind of a light."

There was approval in her eyes. "Good! That's more or less what you're supposed to see. You get better at it with practice, and eventually you won't even have to think about it. Given your propensity for finding people who want to kill you, it's probably a good skill for you to learn, anyway. Being able to pinpoint said individuals' locations in the dark can only be a good thing, right?"

"Especially since no one knows I can do it." Harry grinned. Oh yes, he could see that being useful, indeed. Closing his eyes again, he set himself to mastering a skill that might one day save his life. He'd need all the help he could get.

8

When Ginny was halfway through her pile of clothes, Charles was heading back for more. When Ginny emerged again to show off a purple skirt with erratic, colourful stitching and noticed the clothes that were being flung over Charles' velvet curtain, she decided that now was the time to investigate and settle scores with the malicious wooden box that had had an unfortunate encounter with her foot. Skirt swishing around her knees, she pulled her curtain shut and made her way to the aisle where the box lay, waiting innocently.

Kneeling down, Ginny knocked on the side of the box and then moved it six inches to the right, unsure of what it might do. When it didn't move at all, she curiously picked a blue and slightly pilled shirt off the top. Looking around the shirt, she noticed a sign on the box that read 'Contents, $2'. Casting it aside, she sifted through a pair of bright yellow plaid pants, a holey jumper, and a furry scarf. Then her hands grazed something silky and light. Pulling out a corner of it, she marveled at the texture and inspected its apparent threadbare state. Holding the part she had in her hands up to the light, she looked straight through the fabric as if it was a metal screen. She was about to stand up and leave the box and its tattered contents, when she noticed something unusual. Where the threadbare fabric lay over the corner of the box, the box was no longer. It had disappeared. Ginny knelt and picked up the thing again, pulling it out completely. At first she thought it was a large piece of fabric, as there didn't seem to be any seams, but then a hood emerged. Spreading it completely over the box, she stuck an arm underneath the cloak. Said arm vanished from sight.

Thinking quickly, Ginny considered that fact that they were in a Muggle store, stuffed the invisibility cloak into the pilly shirt, and carried both back to her changing cubicle.

She set the cloak nonchalantly in the middle of her 'keep' pile, and turned back, heart beating, to the pile of clothes that she had yet to try on.

8

Harry, where his head lay under the only window in Ron's attic bedroom, awoke to the sound of the screen door slamming and the porch creaking under someone's weight. Rolling over, he shut his eyes again and tried to slip back into the nice dream he'd been having. It had something to do with ice cream and a beach. He'd never actually been to a beach, unless you counted the shores of the lake at Hogwarts, which he didn't. Squeezing his eyes tighter and drawing the covers up over his head to block out the shrill song of birds, who, in his opinion, ought to be the only creatures awake so early (and should respect the others by staying quiet). He cast about for the fragments of his dream, but they were gone. Grumbling, he threw off the sheet, grabbed his wand out of habit, and trudged down the stairs, only stopping to give Ron's dozing form a bitterly jealous glance.

Rubbing the last of his sleep from his eyes, Harry padded softly through the kitchen and stopped when he reached the door that had so rudely awakened him. He could see Frank through the screen, and she appeared to be going through a series of repetitive movements.

He watched, transfixed, as she took two calculated steps one way, then moved her arms smoothly and powerfully through the air, halting her movements purposely, and repeating the exercise. He quietly opened the door, walked through it, and stood perfectly still.

She had slightly altered her movement now and was shifting her weight from foot to foot, still keeping her arms in motion. Then, without warning, she dropped to the ground, and rolled to standing, and ended up in the exact position she'd been in a moment before. She began her routine again. Still facing away from him, she said, amused, 'Hello, Harry.'

He started. 'How did you know I was there?'

She rotated on the ball of her right foot and grinned at him, raising her eyebrow. 'I saw you, obviously.'

He made an exaggerated nod, pretending to understand. 'Oh,' he said, thinking, 'you mean like that thing last night?'

'Yep.' She let her arms drop and collapsed cross-legged on the ground.

'What was that you were doing?'

Frank raised an eyebrow. 'Oh, just some adapted Tai Chi. I took a class earlier this summer; that last movement was called 'Repulse the Monkey'.

Harry blinked.

'I see...'

'Shall we?'

He frowned. 'Shall we what?'

'Teach you more, of course.'

He walked down the steps and dropped to the ground beside her.

'Erm, all right.'

She stood and pranced over to the patch of wild daisies growing beside the worn porch steps. Picking one, she placed it in front of him.

'Okay Harry, remember what I told you yesterday...' she paused. 'Well, I guess it was sort of today, wasn't it?' He nodded and she shrugged. 'Now, focus energy into the spell, and say the incantation.'

Harry, sitting on the wet grass as the sun came up around him, concentrated on the link he could now feel connecting him to his wand. Centering it in his thoughts, he pictured the daisy in his mind's eye, and envisioned it rising. Gripping his wand, he said softly, 'Engorgio'.

Opening his eyes, he watched apprehensively as the doomed flower rose jerkily a few inches, shuddered, and exploded.

Harry gave a hopeless sigh. 'Same thing as before,' he said gloomily.

Frank slumped down beside him and picked a petal out of his hair, casting it aside. 'Hey, you're not doing so bad, you know? You've been doing this for less than twenty-four hours, and already your flower is sort of doing what it's supposed to.'

'It exploded, though,' Harry said dejectedly.

'Exactly. It _only_ exploded. Let me tell you, when I learned, I practiced with hollyhocks. And, unfortunately for me, hollyhocks have seedpods. They didn't only explode, but they burst into hundreds of little flames. I'm sure I have scars. I never knew that there were so many in one single pod. You know, once you get this, we can move onto wandless. It's a lot easier, and doesn't require so much effort, but you should know this first, as sort of a foundation. Anyways, you up for another go?'

Harry nodded, and Frank brought him another daisy.

The screen door swung open and clacked as it hit the wall.

'Frank. Harry? What are you doing out here so early?' Hermione stepped onto the porch still damp with dew and yawned, shielding her eyes from the sun with a bedraggled paperback.

Frank looked up guiltily. 'Erm, picking flowers?'

Hermione raised an eyebrow suspiciously, and Harry looked, confused, between the two.

'Well,' said Frank a little too loudly, failing to subtly change the subject, 'who's up for some tea?'


	8. The Lychee Adventures

_I either want less corruption, or more chance to participate in it._

_- Ashleigh Brilliant_

8

Ginny looked down at the cloak stashed innocently in the middle of her bundle of clothes. Charles had a slightly smaller pile, but was wearing a vibrant turquoise scarf wrapped around her head like a babushka. The pink one she had on already was clashing horribly with her newest addition. She hadn't shown the cloak to the Canadian girl, and a part of her told her she shouldn't--at least not yet. For now it would be a secret. Ginny wasn't sure what she'd do with an invisibility cloak, but with her innate Weasley desire for mischief coupled with her own slightly distrustful nature it would almost certainly see some use. At the very least she could use it when she returned to Hogwarts in a year; she'd always envied Ron the ability to sneak down to the kitchens in Harry's cloak.

Ginny loaded the things that were soon to be hers onto the counter, and waited for the woman behind the counter to ring them in. Despite growing up in the wizarding world and having survived an encounter with Death Eaters only a few months previously, Ginny had to admit that she found the woman slightly more than intimidating. Ginny supposed she was a Muggle, and resolved to stop thinking about eccentric fashion as a trademark of the Wizarding world, because the woman in question could out-do Dumbledore on a good day. She had blond hair that was cut into a bob and more eye make-up than Ginny would ever wear in her life. Her limbs were heavy with jewelry and she wore a slashed black shirt that concealed very little, not including her crimson bra. Her eyes were icy blue and entirely uninviting. A thick layer of purple lipstick completed the ensemble and it wasn't without trepidation that Ginny said a quiet 'hello'.

Charles however, plunked her things on the counter and dove over it, engulfing the cold woman in a toppling bear hug.

'Agnes! Darling!'

The woman's hands left her hips to wrap loosely around Charles' bare shoulders, her bangles jingling. A surprising smile graced her lips. Ginny noticed then that under the scarves the long blond hair and round face--Charles' 'new' features--had reverted to the familiar purple spiky hair and angular face of yesterday.

'Charlotte, dear, how are you?'

The frosty woman had a surprisingly warm and gentle voice.

'Fine, fine. I didn't expect you to be here; I thought you and Jared were out at the beach.'

'We were, but his sister, you know, Marjee, she went into labor on our second day out. He's always been really close to her. I don't mind; I was all set to spend the next week baby-minding while Marjee caught up on sleep, but the woman who was supposed to work this shift called in sick. Since I was in town, I figured I'd take it.'

Agnes' hands automatically began sorting through the two piles while she and Charles chatted.

'You're kidding me,' Charles exclaimed, bouncing in delight, 'I had no idea she was so near her due date. Is it a boy or a girl?'

'Girl. A real sweetheart, I'll tell you. She's got the entire McTavish clan wrapped around her littlest finger. Sleeps most of the time, but that's to be expected at two weeks premature. Tiniest baby I've ever seen.'

'Aw, she sounds adorable. I think I may have to drop by sometime soon to see her for myself; what's her name?'

Ginny held her breath as Agnes reached the middle of her pile, lifted the invisibility cloak, gave it a once over, and rang it up as two dollars. Folding it and placing it in the large paper bag she'd started for all Ginny's things, Agnes didn't even glance down before moving onto a burgundy blouse that Ginny had chosen.

'Patricia,' Agnes said, continuing their conversation without lapse, 'but I think they're going to shorten it. Trici would be cute, don't you think?'

'It _so_ would. I think a little bit of intervention is going to be necessary here.' Charles had steepled her fingers and was wearing a mock-scheming expression.

'Oh come on, Charlotte, you know Jared's never going to allow anyone to call her Trici.'

Charles smiled. 'What he doesn't know won't hurt him.'

'I'm sure, well, that's it; you two are good to go.' Agnes handed Ginny her bag.

'I'm Agnes, by the way.' She gave Ginny a half-smile.

'Ginny. Nice to meet you.' She gripped the twisted handle of the huge bag firmly with both hands.

'I probably won't see you before school,' Charles started to explain, shifting her grip on her own bag, but Agnes waved it off.

'You and your disappearances. Just give me a hug and come visit me at Christmas.'

The two embraced, and Ginny looked over her shoulder for the twins, but the wicker bench that they'd been sitting on was empty.

Charles fell into step beside Ginny, called a last farewell over her shoulder, and they walked out into the sunlit street.

'Have you seen—,' but Izzie and Dominic were sitting one of the benches outside the store, each clutching a beaten-up paperback and leaning backwards into the wind.

They looked up as the door jangled behind Ginny. 'You two finished? We had to get novels next door, you were taking so long. What did you buy?' Dom stood up and brushed himself off, straightening his toque.

'Do you really want a list?' Ginny asked half-seriously.

Dom held up a finger. "Good point. Not really. My good manners only extend so far."

Charles turned to Ginny. 'Although that was the best one,' she started, 'there are some more—'

'C'mon, Charles,' Dominic said soothingly, 'give the girl a break, she's been shopping for more than four hours.'

Ginny, surprised, looked at her watch and realized that it was indeed after five o'clock.

'You know,' Izzie said thoughtfully, 'I have a craving for a banana lychee smoothie.'

Charles looked at her. 'Well it _is_ suppertime."

'Sound like a plan; Ginny?' Dominic asked her, raising his eyebrows.

'Erm. All right. Where are we going?' Hoping that she was agreeing to go for finner, she realized that she had yet to try any signature Canadian dishes, and she was sure that Hermione would require nothing less than a full report in the first letter Ginny sent her. If it that involved bananas and lychees, whatever they were, then so be it.

'Oh, just a little place back down 13th. It's delightful and delicious, you'll see."

8

Walking around Mrs. Weasley's kitchen, Frank hummed softly to herself, opening and closing cupboards. Hermione sat at the head of the round kitchen table reading, and Harry had gone upstairs to get changed. Finally finding what she'd been looking for, Frank gave a triumphant hum, and plucked a teabag from the jar. Placing it on the mat beside the already-hot kettle, she took down the teapot from its hook above the stove, filled it with boiling water, and dropped the teabag in. She placed it on a waiting hot-mat, and went back to find cups, sugar, and milk.

Hermione looked up from the book she was reading at the teapot now sitting on the table in front of her and noted Frank's happy demeanor.

'The sugar is in the second cupboard to your left,' she said helpfully.

'Oh! Thanks.' Frank went back to humming.

'What were you two really doing outside?'

'Hm?' Frank hummed inquisitively.

'Somehow I doubt you were picking flowers at fourteen minutes after seven. AM.'

'Well, no, I suppose not.' Frank finished setting the table for three and sat down across from Hermione.

'So, what were you doing?'

Frank hooked her feet around the table legs and tipped her chair back a bit, thinking. 'Eh. He kind of caught me practicing my Tai Chi.'

'What do you mean, kind of?'

Frank focused unconsciously on the steeping tea. 'Mm. Not kind of, I guess. He did. It's not my fault the front door slams, or that the porch creaks.'

'I see,' Hermione said quietly, obviously making an effort not to wake the rest of the household. 'So you two haven't...discussed anything?'

Frank smiled suddenly and looked towards the doorway.

'Really subtle, Hermione. No. Despite your best efforts, Frank and I are not 'together'.'

Harry stood in the door looking amused. Hermione looked shocked, and as if she hadn't thought that Harry knew what subtle meant.

'That's not what I meant—' she began, but Harry laughed and waved it aside.

'Of course it's what you meant. It was the way you said 'discussed' that gave it away. It's what Ron would call your 'let me know all your secrets so I can store them all in my large and impressive brain' voice.'

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She tried again. 'He says that?'

Harry shrugged. 'Not in so many words, no, but he's said about as much. Why? Is that a problem? I'd be kind of flattered if someone called my brain large and impressive.' He left the doorway and pulled out the chair between the two girls.

Frank laughed and said in a mocking voice, 'Harry, I think your brain is large and impressive.' She fluttered her eyelashes and Harry gave her a crooked grin.

'Thank-you, Frank. I've always considered it among my better assets. Along with my devastatingly manly eyebrows."

"I couldn't have said it better myself."

Harry waggled his eyebrows at her. "You should know that your brain is also very impressive. In fact, it's so impressive that it inspires me to pour this tea you've so thoughtfully made, before all your dillydallying lets it get cold.'

Frank laughed again and poked him in the side. 'Oh, you think you're so clever. One day soon you will find out first hand what it's like to get on the wrong side of Francis W. Brooks.'

'Oh, I don't know. I'm growing quite fond of your wrong side.'

'Shush you, you're making Hermione uncomfortable.' She laughed at the scared look on the British girl's face.

'All right,' Hermione said in a voice that was much more high-pitched than her own, 'that was weird.'

Harry stifled a snicker and ladled two teaspoons of milk into Hermione's cup. Passing it to her, he asked Frank what she took in her tea.

'Just black, thanks.' Passing it to her and pouring a generous helping of sugar into his own, he turned to Hermione.

'So, what's up with Ron? He seemed a bit off last night. Didn't talk to me all through supper and kept sending you weird looks across the table. You didn't have another fight or anything, did you?'

Hermione fought down a blush, and answered, 'Kind of. No. Not really.'

There was silence, and she knew he was prompting her for more information.

'I don't know,' she said in a rush, 'ask him.'

'All right; it's no big deal, I was just wondering.' But he gave her a funny look anyway.

Frank yawned. Harry smirked at her.

'What,' he said innocently, 'late night?'

But she smirked right back and leveled her gaze. 'I was with this really dashing guy who turned out to be quite handy with an Engorgio spell, if you know what I mean.'

'I do indeed.' He waggled his eyebrows at her again.

'Stop,' Hermione commanded them, and they both turned to look at her.

Feeling the need to be in control of the conversation once again, she asked, 'What were you and Frank were doing at all hours of the morning with an _Engorgio_ spell?!'

Harry's grin widened. 'Picking flowers.'

Looking uncertainly between the two, Hermione said in an awed voice, 'Congratulations, Frank, you've managed to corrupt Harry.'

Frank laughed. 'I wouldn't call it corruption ... I'd say ... improvement. Practically a public service.'

Then she tilted her chair back on its back legs and started humming contentedly once again.

8

As Ginny walked through the hedge, she saw a hand-painted sign reading 'Heliotrope'.

'Is this it?' she asked Dominic.

'Sure is. Best vegan restaurant in the city.'

'Vegan...you mean like no milk and such?'

'Yeah, their food is a little strange if you're not used to it, but they make the best drinks. Beats anything hands down.' Izzie swooned and made a mumbled noise that sounded like 'lychee...'.

A woman wearing ripped jeans and a knitted tank-top approached them with menus and led them to an out-door table set with pale yellow plates and surrounded by four twisted iron chairs.

Dominic took out a small blue plastic device and pressed a button, lifting it to his ear. He angled himself away from the girls and waiting a few moments before saying, 'Mum. We're at the Heliotrope eating supper. Expect us back before seven; call if it's urgent. Bye.'

Conversation between the three girls had stopped and Ginny was staring at the small blue contraption in his hand.

'What?' he asked, self-consciously.

'What is that?' Ginny said in slight confusion, 'One of those, telephones? Is that how you say it?'

'Erm,' he said nonplussed, 'well, actually it's a cell phone. Which is like a telephone, but smaller, and doesn't have a cord. Of course, this one's not quite just a cell phone any more; Pascale's made some improvements.'

'Improvements?'

'Well, yes. Like modifying the—'

'C'mon Dom, as much as we know you'd love to talk about Pascale all day, we've got supper to order, or at the very least drinks.' Izzie had her menu open and was gazing hungrily at it.

'What do you think about the Cucumber-Carrot-Lemon Zinger? That sounds good. I could even add lychees.'

Charles looked up from her menu. 'Yeah, it is. Very refreshing. Especially after a day like today. Of course, whether or not you like it depends on how strong your love of carrot is.'

'Well, it's not bad in juice. I liked the Carrot-Spinach.'

Ginny started. 'In juice?'

Izzie raised her eyebrows. 'Is there something wrong with spinach in juice? The beet is good too, if only because it turns everything red. Bit of a strong after-taste with beet, though, and I'd recommend you stay far, far away from parsley,' she added as an afterthought.

Charles harrumphed. 'I think parsley tastes great. Especially with lime.'

'Well?' Dominic asked impatiently. 'You ready to order yet?'

'Yes, I think so, Ginny, are you going to have one?'

'I don't know...they sound rather...outlandish.' This was not what she'd imagined she'd be eating as her introduction to Canadian food.

Charles laughed. 'They are. After all, who drinks beet juice? No, really, they're good. Why don't you try the Apple-Carrot-Ginger? It's nice and safe, and delicious to boot.'

'Um, sure?' Ginny felt much less than sure, but Izzie had already waved over the waiter.

Taken aback by his lip-ring and pink hair, Ginny graciously allowed her Canadian associates to order first. Was it her imagination or did all the young people in and around Cathedral look like they'd blend in seamlessly at a Weird Sisters concert? Even the muggles! Pink hair was fine if you were named Tonks and were simultaneously sporting a pig's snout, but on a daily basis? Permanently? The bloke in question flourished a notepad.

'Hi, I'll have the Pineapple-Celery-Soy Latte,' Dominic said over the top of his menu.

'Cucumber-Carrot-Lemon Zinger with lychees, thanks.'

'Parsley, lime and avocado please.' Charles looked expectantly at Ginny.

'I—uh.' She looked desperately back.

'Mélange Apple-Carrot-Ginger, and could you also bring four waters?' Charles finished smoothly.

'Sure thing.' The waiter scribbled down their orders, and left to go back inside.

'Thanks,' Ginny said sincerely once he was gone, 'I completely forgot what it was called.'

'No problem,' Charles shrugged, then did a double take, 'Hey! You're red.'

Ginny reached up to touch her hair self-consciously; 'I—'

'No,' Charles said impatiently, 'red!' In the fading light of the sunset, she had to lean closer to see Ginny's shoulders properly.

Izzie made an exclamation of surprise. 'You're right. Gods, Ginny, are you ever burnt! That's got to hurt.' She leaned over and poked the unfortunate girl's pink arm.

'Ouch! If you knew it was going to hurt, why did you poke me?' There was a white mark showing where Izzie had poked her that was fading back into pink.

'Well I'll be,' Charles said scratching her head, 'how on earth did you get burnt today of all days? There wasn't even that much sun! Of course, you are a redhead. And you weren't wearing any sun potion,' she said, answering her own question.

'What does her having red hair have to do with anything?' Dominic looked flummoxed.

'You know, with the pale skin...just never mind.' Izzie rolled her eyes.

Ginny cleared her throat. 'When you're all done gawking at my shoulders, you might notice that the drinks have arrived.'

Sunburn forgotten, Charles and Izzie became immediately engrossed in the drinks placed in front of them. For a moment, everything was silent as they all enjoyed their drinks. Ginny thought that she would have tried carrot juice ages ago if she knew it tasted this good. The ginger made it all the better, giving it a sharp aroma and leaving a tingly feeling in her mouth.

The waiter had appeared again, and was watching them while poking his lip ring with his pen.

'So, you want food?'

Izzie finished a long draught, and replied. 'Oh, yes,' she looked at her fellow diners, 'what shall it be? Same as usual?'

Charles nodded, and Dominic voiced her opinion. 'Sure.'

'All right, in that case, we'll have four fresh rolls, one bean salad, mixed vegetables with herbs, two sliced avocados and lime, one plate of pita and hummus, two orders of pineapple rice in coconut milk, and four plates.'

Ginny raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. She was beginning to think that after living with these three for a while, nothing would surprise her.

8

_FUNCTION Journal Entry_

_SELECT August 22_

_OVERLAY SCRAMBLE FILTER_

_RECORD_

_It's me again. Hey. I'm in England. I arrived a few days ago and am staying at the Burrow with the Weasleys. It's really strange, actually. In more ways than one, but most apparent, is that...well, you'd think that the field would be the same, spanning the globe as it is reputed to do, but I would swear that there's something off around here. Either the frequency is whacked, or there's been a huge variance in the flow. I've no idea what would have caused something like this, but it makes finding and manipulating the field so much easier._

_Speaking of manipulating, I've been spending quite a bit of time with Harry. At first he wanted to know the basics of Jo'Ouqye, but I kind of got carried away, and we spent eight and a half hours fooling around with basic Jo'Ouqye techniques and a primary introduction to field work. Something that, for him, ought to be much more difficult than it was. It may be something to do with whatever makes the field here so much more accessible. He's learning really fast, though, and now he's got intent pretty much down pat. We're moving on to wandless, but that's not what I want to talk about._

_I actually wanted to muse about Harry. First of all, he's a great guy. I know I've only known him for a few days, but he so...unique. He's got this big, bad guy coming after him, and somehow he's still a thoughtful and funny human being. He's got a wicked sense of humour, once you get past his intense shy streak. He mumbles at first, but when he's got something to say, he'll say it, sometimes without thinking, which is both incredibly funny and potentially worrisome. Not, of course, that he's dumb or anything. Quite the opposite, in fact. He thinks on his feet and, with a bit of practice, could argue your socks off. Although, he might have to get past this penchant for truthfulness he's got. Can't lie worth a damn._

_Anyway. I asked him out the other day. Well, I kind of asked. All right; I kissed him first, but he wasn't very enthusiastic. So now we've decided that he's head over heels for Ginny, who I met briefly, but would love to get a chance to talk to. Especially about Harry. Maybe later. She's staying at the Inglenook, and I hope for her sake that Charles has gone easy on her, but I wouldn't be surprised if poor Ginny Weasley ended up with blue hair before the end of the week._

_But I'm going off topic. Last night, Harry and I talked about a lot of stuff. We talked about the potential us and about the potential him and Ginny. Honestly, the latter is beginning to seem more likely, and they're not even in the same country. He kissed me again –yes, he initiated it this time— but I think it was more to prove a point than anything else. Surprisingly, I still feel really comfortable around him, something I'm not sure I can really explain. Normal Frank would be totally weirded out by now, and would probably never speak to Harry again, but... I don't know. There's something about him, I just wish I knew what it was._

_I've got a sneaking suspicion that he's, if not responsible, then somehow connected to the disturbance in the field. I've just got to think of a way to either ask him, or find out on my own._

_Wish me luck._

_END SESSION_

_FUNCTION Close Program_

8

Ginny spent the next few days in a haze of pain. She'd spent thirteen hours sleeping off the delicious vegan food on Thursday, but now it was Saturday, and she was only just able to make it without generous quantities of green goop called 'aloe' supplied by Charles' mother. Thankfully, it had been grey and threatening rain during her sunburned incident, and she hadn't felt too bad about having to stay indoors.

Charles and Izzie were being really good about it, after they'd got over their initial teasing. Dominic had helped Ginny brew a Sun-Filtering Potion, something that blocked what he called 'UV rays', even though she hadn't gotten a chance to use it. The three Canadians spent most of their time with Ginny, although that morning Charles and Izzie had had to go on an 'emergency' shopping trip, leaving the two to play game after game of Slap: a highly addictive and competitive card game. By the time the girls returned and the ominous clouds had lessened, permitting thin and feeble rays of sunlight to shine through, both Ginny and Dominic were nursing battered knuckles, and looking as if they had enjoyed themselves immensely. All in all, Ginny was feeling much more comfortable in her temporary home at the Inglenook and looking forward to leaving for Pascale's on the following day. They'd stay with Pascale's grandmother (who the twins and Frank called Gramme), for a week, leaving Saturday morning for one last night at the Inglenook before they'd make their way to Opasquia on the morning of the first.

'So, who won?' Charles asked, sending odd glances between the two.

'I did!' Ginny pronounced firmly.

'You did not, you cheated; you can't hold your hand so close to the pile!' Dominic protested.

'I never! You were too far away is all.' Ginny smiled innocently and stood up, careful not to brush her still tender shoulders on the arm of the sofa.

Dominic looked unappeased, but didn't protest, and followed her into the kitchen, where Ginny poured herself a glass of milk and downed it in one swallow. Charles and Izzie stood in the doorway.

'So, are we agreed then?' Izzie asked. 'We leave tomorrow morning at eleven?'

'I suppose so,' Dominic acceded, throwing a pointed glare at Ginny. 'We'd arrive at about six, with stops.'

They'd been discussing it since Dom received a message from Pascale the day before, and Ginny was now unsurprised at the length of the trip.

She looked at her watch.

'What are we doing tonight? It's almost seven, shouldn't your mum be home soon?' Ginny looked questioningly between Dominic and Charles.

As if summoned, Alison Brooks hurried into the room, discarding her woven purse on the counter, and opening the cupboard to take out plates and utensils. Alison was always doing something, Ginny had noticed. She was always busy, and seemed unhappy when she had to wait, but had a hypocritical tendency never to be on time.

'Bonfire tonight,' she said with her back towards the teens, as she pulled paper napkins out of a drawer, 'I thought we'd celebrate your last night home. I've sent Jason to Marc's house, and Christina is coming over.' She looked at the twins when mentioning their mother.

Dominic and Izzie raised their eyebrows, but said nothing. Ginny had also learned not to interrupt Alison when she was in one of her 'being busy' frenzies.

'Now, what would you kids prefer to eat? I bought hamburgers, hotdogs, and I think there are marshmallows and chocolate chips in the cupboard. Charlotte, did you pick up any bananas?'

'Yes, Mum—'

'Excellent, Izzie, hon', will you pass me the buns, they're one the counter beside your elbow.'

Izzie looked where she'd been leaning and tossed Alison the bag.

'Both, I'd say, wouldn't you? Of course, you're all still growing, that's for sure; do you think we'll need more food? I've got veggies and apples if anyone wants, but—oh! That must be— Christina, how have you been?'

Alison took two steps across a space that Ginny would have sworn to need four, and embraced the other woman warmly. Although Ginny had met the twins' mother before, she was always surprised at how attentive everyone in the room seemed to become as soon as Christina entered. She was always dressed in black, a colour that made her skin seem shockingly pale beneath her equally black hair. It was more than clear whom the twins had inherited their intense hair from. She also, unlike her children, had piercing pale-blue eyes that shone from beneath carefully curved brows. She was a woman who commanded respect, but had a mischievous quirk in her smile that surely had not come from fifteen years as a stern matriarch. No, Christina was a genuinely kind and friendly person despite her occasionally aloof attitude and formal attire.

She acknowledged her children with a nod and a fleeting smile before beginning an animated conversation with Alison and turning back the way she'd come. Alison's hand appeared, holding her wand briefly behind her back and, with a sharp flick, the plates, cutlery, napkins, and assorted items of food followed the two conversing women out of the house, the screen door swinging shut behind them.

'Well,' started Charles.

'Nice to see you, too,' Izzie finished.

'Do you suppose we should follow them?' Ginny asked curiously.

'I think they mean for us to,' Dominic replied lazily.

'Indeed,' Izzie put in, 'I don't think that's too much of a problem.'

'They are feeding us after all,' her brother agreed, offering his arm to Ginny. 'Come, Ms. Weasley, and pray you do not forget your sweater, lest you burn your shoulders anon and are unable to accompany us upon the morrow, as we embark on a journey to the north.'

Ginny glanced behind her before taking Dom's arm, but Izzie and Charles only rolled their eyes.

8

Headmaster Dumbledore was a very important man. Despite his recent ridicule and disparagement, he remained a prominent figure in the Wizarding world. People looked to him in times of uncertainty and crisis. It was, undeniably, a great responsibility.

Currently, the Headmaster was dealing with one of the additional benefits of said responsibility. Harry Potter.

He'd received an owl not five minutes previously from the Ministry of Magic about an act of underage magic committed by Mr. Potter himself. In light of the false criticism that had been liberally bestowed to Harry and himself, Dumbledore had made a few enquiries and subtle hints about his student's use of magic during the summer. It had not been hard to obtain a permit of sorts for the oblivious Mr. Potter, and to request that he be owled if and when Harry had need of his wand. Not, Dumbledore reflected, that the Ministry would notice the majority of underage magic at the Burrow, no, he was more worried about times when Harry would, undoubtedly, be leaving on some errand or other; a time when he would be much more vulnerable to attackers.

Nothing, he'd decided, was going to happen to Harry this summer. Albus had personally placed the wards around the Burrow, in hopes of ensuring Harry a happy vacation away from the War, the Prophecy, and even Voldemort. Surprisingly, the latter had been unpredictably mild, and his attacks few and dispersed since his revival and the public announcement informing all Wizardkind that the most feared dark wizard of the century was, to put it plainly, back.

Then, Ginevra and possibly Harry had been struck by what was widely assumed to be lightning, but even that had not disturbed the boy's summer too greatly. In fact, the Headmaster mused, it was possible that a friendship, or at the very least an alliance of sorts, had sprung up after such a trying ordeal. Something that could only be good for young Harry's future. The fact that Ms. Weasley was not, as it happened, in the country did not bother him in the least. Compared to his current dilemma and point of confusion, it was minor.

Why, in the name of all that's holy, would Harry feel the need to use an Engorgio charm at three AM?

It boggled the mind, and when the aforementioned mind did come up with an explanation, he quickly dismissed it as unlikely to the point of impossibility.

888

88

8

_**Thoughts?**_


	9. The Book's End

_Those who hear not the music think the dancers mad._

_-Proverb_

8

**The Book's End--  
**

Ginny watched, mesmerized, as the flames leaped four to five feet in the air. The sun had set hours ago and the only light was that of the fire, illuminating the faces of her new friends. Their mothers were sitting in white plastic chairs a little ways away, laughing together while their children sat circling the blaze. Izzie was poking at the livid coals with a long stick; the tip glowed red and she doused it in the surrounding dirt before shoving it back into the heart of the flames. Sparks flew up and Ginny blinked, tiny pinpricks of light playing on the backs of her eyelids. Charles was curled up, cat-like, on the grass, occasionally snuffing out any sparks that made it to the ground near her. Dominic was sitting on the bench beside Ginny, his arms crossed, his face impassive, and she wondered, not for the first time, what he was thinking as he stared into nowhere, because although it danced and made flickering shadows on his face, there was an unhappiness in the set of his jaw that could not have been brought on by the cheery, cackling fire. Sparks flew up again, and Izzie relented, casting her stick into the fire, and settled herself near Charles.

Of all the people Ginny had met in Canada, including Charles' little brother, who the twins insisted was evil, Izzie was the one who puzzled Ginny the most. At times, she was as crazy and amiable as Charles, but others, she seemed to intentionally shun Ginny, giving her side-looks and frowning when she mentioned classes, or the upcoming school year. It was unsettling, certainly, and Ginny wondered if perhaps Izzie was a poor student, or maybe dreading the end of the summer, but noticed that she had a less adverse reaction when Dom or Charles brought up a related topic. Which meant that it was probably a problem that Isabella had with Ginny, in particular, and that saddened her, and brought back unpleasant echoes of the isolation she'd felt in first year. She resolved to ask one of her other friends about it when she had the chance. She wasn't just going to meekly allow herself to be excluded again. Charles, Dominic, and even Frank seemed amenable, she'd be damned if she let Izzie ruin her chances at friendship. She wasn't going to be alone this time.

Ginny felt her eyes watering in the dry heat as she gazed at the coals, alight with a red glow. Another shower of sparks made her blink, two tears running from her prickling eyes. Wiping them hastily, she looked up at Dominic, who was still lost in thought. Following his gaze, she was lost once more in the hypnotic flames.

8

Harry, who, it had seemed, was politely trying to break down her door, had woken Frank at quarter to seven, exactly four hours after she'd finally gotten to sleep. Hermione had answered the door, alert immediately, and had kindly ripped the quilt off of Frank's slumbering form to rouse her. She and Harry had been working, once again, until very late, but Harry was adamant that they get through as much as possible before school started. Which was great for him, but she still begrudged him her lost sleep.

Now, however, it was lunch, and Frank was happily fixing herself an egg-salad sandwich. She added a crisp leaf of lettuce, and placed the second piece of bread on top, taking a bite.

'So, I'm itching for a bit of Quidditch this afternoon, what d'you say, Harry?' Ron asked, swallowing a large bite of his own ham and tomato. 'It won't be long before we're back at school, where there'll be rules and things to stop us thoroughly trouncing Frank.'

Harry looked at Frank. 'Yeah, as long as my lifetime ban isn't still in place. You don't think McGonagall would let that happen, do you? I mean, she'd the one who got me on the team in the first place. And Umbridge isn't coming back...'

"Oh don't be ridiculous, Harry. If nothing else she'd let you play just to spite that horrible woman." Frank wasn't sure exactly what the story was, and figured that she'd have to ask the other girl later, when they were alone, because an expression like the one Hermione was wearing meant that it must have been something fantastic.

Harry shrugged, 'Sure, I guess. I don't think we've got much else to do, to be honest. Frank? Hermione?'

Frank was quick to agree, but her smile turned to a frown remembering Ron's challenge. 'What do you mean, _trounce_? You couldn't trounce me if my arms were broken and my broom had bristles at both ends!'

Ron looked smug. 'Well at least I can stay on my broom.'

'Hey! I didn't actually _fall_, if you'll remember; and elbows to the midsection is hardly what I'd call good sportsmanship.'

Harry coughed. "I think that may have been what he meant while lamenting the use of actual rules in Quidditch. In fact, it's more of a compliment than otherwise..."

8

'Do I have to?' Hermione complained. 'You _know _what a terrible flyer I am. Why don't you play without me; I've got a book on the making of Anti-Cheating quills that I've been meaning to start for ages...'

But neither of the boys was listening; they were busy discussing cobbing with Frank.

It was often like this, Hermione thought, couldn't they at least try to be interested in something she liked? Just once: it wouldn't kill them. What would it have been like, she mused, to befriend someone other than these two lugs sitting in front of her in first year? Someone, perhaps, who applied themselves to their schoolwork, and could understand the concept of reading for pleasure? Although, she reasoned, she wouldn't have given this up for anything; nothing could replace the time they'd spent both in trouble and out of it. She watched as Harry said something quietly to Ron and nudged him in the ribs. Ron turned scarlet, and Frank slapped Harry upside the head and hissed something in his ear. Harry laughed.

It was in this same state of detachment, staring aimlessly into space, when Hermione noticed Ron's blush subsiding, and the surreptitious glances in her direction when he thought Harry and Frank were too wrapped up in each other. She caught his gaze and raised her eyebrows questioningly.

He seemed to want to say something, but stopped when Harry, who was trying to avoid being poked by Frank, bumped into him. Starting up their conversation again, he looked away from Hermione, and she once again lost herself in musings.

Harry, it was plain to see, became a different person around Frank. He laughed a lot more, for one thing, and he talked more as well. Gone was the insecure boy of sixteen who found it difficult to carry on a conversation that wasn't about school, Quidditch, or Voldemort. No, when he was with Frank, Harry seemed not to dwell on the approaching threat of the Dark Lord, and to be genuinely enjoying his summer. It was something Hermione had first noticed shortly after Ginny had been struck by lightning, and it progressed as she and Harry had started to become closer; Harry, it appeared, was beginning to accept the truth of his life and learning to enjoy it when he could. Frank, with her easy and affable nature, had only sped up the process.

It wasn't only Voldemort that he seemed more comfortable with, but after last year, Hermione had expected Harry to be severely depressed. She'd taken care not to mention Sirius' death since her arrival at the Burrow, but, outwardly at least, Harry seemed fine. She'd love to know what had incited such a drastic change in three short weeks.

She knew (at least, she'd been assured) that there was nothing romantic going on between Frank and Harry. Goodness knows she'd asked enough times, but there was just something... something not completely platonic about their relationship. However, she'd be damned if she knew what it was.

Ron gave her another look while Harry and Frank were debating the finer points of feinting, and she felt her pulse speed up. Had Ron told Harry yet?

They hadn't actually agreed not to tell Harry about their new relationship, but there just never seemed to be a good time to break the news. Harry was, she thought, probably oblivious to the looks they'd been exchanging for the past week, and hopefully ignorant of them brushing hands when they thought everyone else was to preoccupied to notice, but she couldn't be sure. Most of the time he seemed like normal Harry: he'd roll his eyes at Ron's Cannons obsession, he'd eat three helpings of pudding for dessert, and he'd lose every single chess game to Ron. But there were times when he'd say something so--atypical, that she'd wonder if he'd been possessed by a third Weasley twin.

She'd ask Ron about it later: ask him if he'd noticed anything else new. They were going to Diagon Alley tomorrow, she realized, surely she'd be able to wrestle him away from the others long enough to have a private discussion, something which was rare in the Burrow. She smiled slightly, thinking that for the first time she knew with certainty that he would be just as eager to get her alone as she was him.

8

Ginny smiled and dug her toes deeper into the cold, grainy sand. The waves were licking the shore, and a sharp wind pricked icily through the knit of her sweater. She shivered, and his hand tightened around hers, large, warm, and comfortable. She leaned into him, both to conserve heat, and to enjoy his presence, clad, though it was, in the bottle-green jumper her mother had knitted him last Christmas.

'Ginny,' he said.

She looked up from her position tucked beneath his chin, noting how pleasing the shape of his jaw was, and how he had a smattering of beard's growth that made her stomach rather flip-floppy.

'Ginny...—Ginny!'

Startled, Ginny's eyes flew open. There was a face hovering a few inches above her own.

'Dammit, Charles!' She lamented the loss of her dream and rolled over, burying her face in her pillow.

Charles, however, walked across the room and flung open the drapes, sunlight spilling in.

'Rise and shine, darling, we've got a big day ahead of us.'

Ginny grumbled, but obediently sat up, rubbing her eyes. 'What time is it?'

She fumbled around on the bedside table for her watch. The longest hand was pointing to the ten, and the shorter one to the eight.

'Charles!' Ginny said in anguish, 'It's not even nine o'clock!'

Ginny was normally an early riser, but since she'd arrived in Canada, she hadn't been able to get to sleep before one or two. In fact, she didn't remember getting to sleep at all last night.

'Hey...how did I get here?'

Charles looked up from where she'd been rifling through Ginny's trunk. 'Hm? What do you—oh. Dom carried you up. You fell asleep on his shoulder.' She smirked. 'It was really sweet, actually, you started snoring—'

Ginny interrupted her with a well-aimed pillow. 'Shut it, I do not snore.'

But Charles gave her an infuriating smile and said only, 'C'mon, you'd better be packed. The twins are going to be here in a little more then half an hour, and breakfast is on the table.'

Ginny frowned, but let the snoring comment drop, because there were delicious smells wafting through the open trapdoor.

'Come. Breakfast first, then we'll come up here to get all your stuff.' She struck a pose, one hand on her hip, and the other pointing down the ladder. 'Onward, my fine friend, the crêpes and sausages await!' And with a dramatic flourish she strode regally through the trap door, with Ginny only moments behind.

8

'Aw, hurry up, Harry; I believe I was promised ice cream after we spent such a ridiculous amount of time in Eyelops, was I not?' Frank was none too gently dragging him towards Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour.

'I seem to recall something along those lines...' Harry said vaguely, purposely slowing his step, 'or was it straight to Flourish and Blott's? Let me see...'

'Oh, shut up.' And she skipped ahead, weaving through the tables set close to the building, and up to a window in the wall where a young woman with a cheery blond ponytail and a matching smile asked for her order.

Frank observed the flavours with a calculating eye, and glanced back at Harry, who had just stepped up beside her.

'Remember, we can't dally, we promised to meet Ron and Hermione in Flourish and Blott's ten minutes ago.'

'That,' she poked him in the chest, 'is certainly no fault of mine. How you could spend so much time looking at the different kinds of owl treats is beyond me.'

Turning back to the lady in the window, she said, 'I'll have the Fly Pie, please; Harry, which one do you want?'

Harry shot her a bemused look and simply said, 'Vanilla sundae. Pineapple sauce.'

Frank raised a brow, but said nothing. Once they'd been handed their ice creams, the two made their way to the bookstore where they expected to meet Ron and Hermione.

8

When Ginny had finished packing, as her trunk clunked dutifully down the stairs behind her, she made a mental tally of everything she'd packed. She'd left behind most of the books she'd both brought and bought on 13th, but aside from that, everything she could find had been unmercifully stuffed in any spare corner or nook there was. She was, to put it lightly, splitting at the seams.

As she reached the second floor landing, she glanced in one of the open doors to see a middle-aged man packing an old, battered suitcase. There was a guitar leaning against the bedpost, and as she watched, the guitar-case ambled out of the closet and, in a manner of speaking, ate the guitar. The man had his back to her. With the grace of an oft-practiced action, he flung his white, wiry hair over one shoulder, and clipped his suitcase closed in one smooth motion. He hoisted the guitar on his back, picked up his suitcase, and took in hand the jacket and hat that had just flown out of the closet. Turning, he walked across the room, gave Ginny a tired smile and a nod, and preceded her down the stairs.

Strangely, Ginny felt sad as she watched his descending back, and the hat that was now resting askew on his head. The room he had just left seemed empty, despite the numerous furnishings that filled it. The gauzy curtains fluttered a haphazard lament, and, frowning, Ginny continued down the stairs.

When she reached the main level, Ginny found Dominic reading out a long list to his sister who would variably answer 'check', or hit him upside the head for whatever reason Ginny couldn't imagine.

'Mosquito Juice.'

'Check.'

'Mosquito netting.'

'Check.'

'Sunhat.'

'Check.'

'Swimming gear.'

'Check.'

'Snorkel.'

'Dom!'

'Right, right. Well, I definitely think that's it. Hey Ginny, did you pack the Sun Potion?'

'It's in here somewhere,' she said, gesturing to her trunk, 'are we ready to go?'

'Sure are. Uncle Larry is waiting in the Peace Pop-top; all we have to do is load all the bags. Charles just dashed back upstairs for her—' Dominic stopped as the sound of feet pounding on stairs.

'I'm here!' Charles gasped, out of breath and careening to a stop beside Ginny.

'Then onward and outward, as I always say,' Izzie said, standing up and making for the door, 'or someone always says something along those lines, at any rate...'

And so the four of them piled into the accurately dubbed 'Peace Pop-top', given it's name because of what Ginny learned was a peace sign, a relic of the nineteen-seventies printed onto the cloth covering of the spare tire. Uncle Larry, a friend of Pascale's grandmother and their current chauffeur grinned happily from the driver's seat as they rolled out of the Inglenook's driveway. The clouds rolled behind them with tenebrous intent.

Oblivious, Alison waved cheerily from outside the kitchen window as she watched a long white van filled with carefree teenagers disappear around the corner. Settling a sign reading 'Rooms to rent' on the sill, she turned to go back inside.

8

Unfortunately, Ron and Hermione were not at Flourish and Blott's, nor were they in the surrounding area. In fact, the missing pair was not actually missing, but nestled in a narrow alleyway between Magnificent Magnolias (and Other Arbory Delights - Since 1342) and Henry Muddling's: Assorted Maps.

'Are you sure Harry doesn't know?' Hermione asked while idly playing with Ron's pinkie finger.

'I haven't told him, if that's what you mean.' Ron replied, leaning down for another kiss, but Hermione held up her hand.

'Are you sure? He seems a little too smug about something lately, but that could just be whatever he gets up to with Charles at all hours of the night and morning... I wish I knew what. Picking flowers just doesn't cut it.'

Ron looked at her askance, but merely shrugged. 'Who cares? He obviously either doesn't want to tell us, or he thinks it's not important. Besides,' he said with a lop-sided grin, 'we've been keeping our own secrets, it's only fair that he should have some too.' He reached over to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, but Hermione grabbed his wrist and, turning it over, looked at his watch.

'Oh, goodness! We said we'd meet Harry and Frank fifteen minutes ago! What was I thinking? Hurry!'

And, though she'd never have known, she proceeded to drag Ron away from their niche of relative seclusion and toward the bookstore in almost exactly the same manner as Frank had towed Harry to the Ice Cream Parlour, albeit directionally different.

When at last they arrived at the pre-arranged meeting spot outside Flourish and Blott's, Harry and Frank were leaning calmly against the wall, both looking decidedly pleased with something.

'Well, look who we've got here,' Frank said with a failed attempt at an innocent smile, 'I wonder what could have kept them...what, twenty minutes?'

Harry's smile matched Franks exactly as he quipped, 'I'm sure I have no idea.'

Hermione, all too aware of her disheveled appearance, self-consciously ran a hand through her hair and looked suspiciously at Frank, her eyes narrowing shrewdly as she glanced at Harry. They were up to something. In cahoots with a Canadian. She'd never have anticipated it.

8

Dominic laughed loudly and pointed to a house on their left.

'Look!' he crowed. 'It's the yellow house on Pinkie Road.'

Sure enough, the road sign read 'Pinkie Rd' in big, white block letters, and a few feet along it was a vibrant yellow farmhouse with a green-shingled roof. Ginny smiled. It was the height of summer, and everything was either green —or in the case of the fields— blue or yellow. Farmhouses included, it appeared.

The one thing she could not get over was how incredibly flat it was! They'd been driving for nearly half an hour, and although Ginny was enjoying herself immensely, they could still see the city behind them and, when the road angled slightly right, the rising silver spires of the Cathedral.

She was seated between Dominic and Charles, with Izzie turned full around in the passenger seat, her cheeks flushed with laughter. Uncle Larry, who, Ginny had learned, was actually the twins' great uncle glanced back at them in the rear-view mirror and began a tuneless rendition of an Irish drinking song, akin to any other she'd heard on the occasions when Seamus had had slightly too much punch (thoughtfully improved by her twin brothers) at a victory celebration in the Gryffindor common room. The thought made her slightly homesick, but not for long, as, she reflected, when Izzie and Dominic joined in, she'd never actually heard Seamus sing about goats before.

8

Frank ran her hand along the spines of the less than colourful books in the 'History of Magic' section. _Goblin Wars of the 4th Century_ was excitingly arrayed next to _Highlights of the Second Centaurian Treaty_. Or not. Why were there no books about the Old Magics? Frank had looked alphabetically, numerically, historically, and vertically, but they were simply not to be found. She'd been hoping, perhaps irrationally, ever since she saw Hermione's book that she'd be able to find more on the subject in Britain than she had in Canada. But alas, it appeared that this country was going to be just as close-mouthed about the Old Magics as her own. Personally, she found them the most fascinating part of Wizarding history; it was frustrating that there was so little information about them. That no one was ever willing to tell her why there was so little information, however, was intriguing. Sighing she looked through the shelf at Hermione, who was browsing the N.E.W.T.s section with an almost manic fervor.

'Succeed…succeed…' the other girl was whispering to herself, 'Ah ha! How To Succeed As A Muggleborn In The Practice Of MediWizardry!'

'Psstt! Hermione!' Frank hissed in the oppressive silence of the book emporium.

'You remember that book about the Old Magics?' she asked in a hushed voice.

'Yes, what about it?' the other girl asked curiously.

'You said you'd take me to the store you bought it from. This isn't it, is it.' It wasn't a question, but Hermione shook her head all the same.

'No, that's a second hand place down the street. We could go there now if you'd like. I'm sure Harry and Ron could amuse themselves for a few minutes, just let me ring these up first.'

Hermione brought her purchases to the counter, and a few moments later, pointed to the exit and gestured for Frank to follow her. They emerged into the open air, and Frank had to shield her eyes from the direct glare of the sun. Hermione led her down the street and turned left into an alleyway that Frank would surely have overlooked. Settled comfortably into the wall was a rounded red door, and a hanging signpost reading 'The Book's End'. Hermione, ducking her head, pushed into the dimly lit store.

'Hello?' she called. 'Mr. Monteyne?' she brushed her hair out of her eyes, and peered into the shadows.

'Hello?' Frank's voice felt thin and insignificant in the oppressive mustiness of the one-room shop that, now that her eyes had adjusted, Frank could see was liberally layered with books. The shop's name was scarily apt, she thought. This did indeed look like the place where books came to die.

'Coming, coming.' A thin, spidery man emerged from behind a wall of stacked books, wiping a pair of glasses on his already grimy shirt tails. He seemed to move instinctively through the tottering columns, as if he'd been walking among them for centuries--something which, Frank thought, was next to impossible as the shop keeper didn't look a day over thirty. But, to Frank's surprise, he didn't put the glasses on, instead tucked them into his front pocket and squinted at the two girls.

Suddenly, recognition crossed his features, and he crowed with delight.

'Hermione Granger! I hadn't expected to see you so soon! Have you read any of those books yet? What about the one about...well, has there been a problem? And who is this lovely young lady?'

Frank thought the he had a kind of hawkish presence, with his very long nose, and very long teeth, and the slight hunch in his shoulders that could be the result of too many hours poring over old tomes. He bent a little lower, as if to see them better through the gloom, and his face crossed a beam of sunlight that had slipped through a loose rafter. His eyes were a disconcertainly pale shade of brown--almost yellow. She could easily picture him sprouting wings and alighting on the nearest tower of books. But Hermione was apparently not at all bothered, because she answered his flurry of questions with a smile.

'No, no, there's no problem. It's wonderful; I'm almost finished. This is Frank—'

'Francis Brooks.' Frank interrupted, and blushed in surprise when the man gave her a sweeping bow that threatened to topple the nearest stack, and lightly kissed her knuckles. 'And you are?'

'Miles Monteyne, I'm delighted.' He straightened, and gestured for the two girls to follow him behind the pile he's emerged from earlier.

There, was a low table illuminated by two short candle stubs that smelled pleasantly of beeswax. Laid out carefully on the table was a scuffed, leather-bound book and a handful of scattered sheets of paper written in a neat and precise hand.

'Oh,' breathed Hermione, 'isn't that one of the—', she interrupted herself, 'ooh, where did you get that?'

He smiled at her enthusiasm and pulled the spectacles out of his pocket. 'I think it may be a replica, but here,' he handed her the lenses, 'put them on.'

Hermione unfolded the glasses and set them upon her nose as though they were made of glass, which, Frank reflected, they were. The other girl pulled the text towards her and gawked openly at what she saw. Hermione pulled them off, looked enquiringly at Mr. Monteyne.

'Is it some sort of restoration charm?' She frowned. 'But why put it on the glasses, and not the text itself?'

'Observant as always, Ms. Granger. The book itself has been unnaturally aged; I don't know how. I tried to restore a sample of the parchment and can you guess what happened?'

Hermione bit her lip. 'It accelerated the artificial disintegration?

He beamed. 'Right in one. But, if you notice, by looking through the lenses, the words become whole and unmarred. I'm recopying the text for future translation.' Hermione nodded her approval.

'So, is there anything in particular I can help you with today?'

At last Frank, who had been watching the exchange and listening with confusion spoke. 'What is that book?'

She pointed to the one they'd been discussing. Hermione answered her question simply. 'It might be one of the ancient texts rumored to contain the secrets of the Old Magics and why they were lost. Of course,' she added as an afterthought, 'it's probably just a forgery.'

Mr. Monteyne gave Hermione a hard, searching look, but smiled dryly. 'Too true, I'm afraid; I can't find any other explanation for its preternatural deterioration.'

'Why would anyone want to forge a book?' Frank asked, confused.

'Profit,' Hermione sighed. 'I still don't know where you found it though.'

The shopkeeper smiled in remembrance. 'I was at an estate sale when the lady beside me told me a story about a book that was going to be sold later on. Apparently, it had belonged to a very old woman who died of natural causes. She'd lived alone, but when they found the body, she was clutching this to her chest. A little macabre, perhaps, but I thought it might be interesting, and it didn't really hold anyone else's interest, so I got it fairly cheap.'

Hermione frowned. 'That's more than a little creepy. Was she telling the truth?'

Mr. Monteyne shrugged and gave a little laugh. 'I've no idea, but it sure intrigued me... and you know what a fondness I have for old stories.'

'Actually,' Frank interjected, 'Hermione and I came here today looking for any more books you may have about the Old Magics. They're really hard to find, and when I saw the one she was reading the other day, I thought you might have more?' She turned it into a question, and looked inquisitively at him. He leveled her with a calculating expression.

'Hard to find is an understatement, my dear. Inquiring into the area is generally discouraged. I just happen to take a particular interest in the subject, and, what with all my connections to the book market I've amassed quite a collection. Subtly, of course. Wouldn't want to advertise my affection. Most of them belong in my private collection, but if you know where to look I've got a decent number out on the shelves.'

Amused, Frank looked around the room, and saw neither a shelf, nor a bookcase in sight. Mr. Monteyne must have noted her brief search, for he coloured slightly, and added, 'Figurative shelves, I suppose.'

She smiled, and he asked her politely to follow him. 'But do tread lightly around my books; some I'm afraid, are piled a tad bit haphazardly, and I'd hate for them to topple.'

The three maneuvered their way past a veritable wall of books, and around an old stone birdbath that had long been abandoned and was now decked liberally in lost pages and topped with a forgotten quill.

Frank, trying to sound as innocently casual as possible said, "Excuse me, Mr. Monteyne. But why don't we ever learn about the Old Magics in school? I think they're pretty interesting."

Mr. Monteyne seemed to hesitate for a moment, or perhaps misstep, but caught himself and turned sharply left at a green-painted coat rack, where they arrived at a dead end, completely surrounded by books. Uneasy, Frank stood on her toes to see over the tomed partition, and was unaccountably relieved to see the door they'd come in at the other side of the room. Looking back, the shopkeeper was running his fingers down the spines of his books, muttering under his breath.

'That's odd.' He frowned, and pushed a hand through his receding blond hair.

Carefully, he selected a single text from halfway down the stack, and with agility Frank would not have expected, (even if he was, she suspected, aided by wandless magic), drew one from the top, and replaced it in the open slot before the entire column collapsed.

Frowning again, he handed Frank the book he had chosen, and led her back to the front counter.

'This is the only one here. I must have misplaced the others. They're probably hiding in the Herbology section or something equally ridiculous. Will this one do?'

Frank, now with the book in hand, read the title, _The Magics of Unrecorded History_. She beamed at him.

'This one will do wonderfully, thank you very much.'

He nodded once, and amid his towers of knowledge turned to face her. When he fixed her with his piercing yellow eyes she swallowed and wondered where Hermione had disappeared to. Uncomfortable but unwilling to back down, she met his stare stoically.

'Miss Brooks. If you are prepared to possess a book outlining the history of such things, then you need to be aware of the history of its lack thereof. The reason you don't learn about the Old Magics in school is, as you will learn from the book in your hands, because they do not wish them to be known. This is not just a legal restriction, like that on magic carpets, this is an international effort to erase a large and _extremely_ pervasive part of Magical history. There is an authority, higher than the Ministry, whose sole responsibility is to ensure the complete suppression of the Old Magics. Despite my perpetuating an image as a queer but rather simple book-seller, my personal fascination has more than once only narrowly escaped discovery. In fact, if your ability to read the title of Miss Granger's last purchase--which I have charmed for the express purpose--hadn't proved to me your genuine interest, then I would have been forced to send you on your way with a smile and a memory charm. Do you understand the severity of what I am telling you?"

Sometime during his speech, Hermione had appeared at Frank's side. Frank tore her eyes from his and looked over at the other girl, whose face remained impassive, and then down at the book she held. Mr. Monteyne's explanation had been enlightening, and she itched to read what Naum D. Pleume had to say by way of expansion. She now also knew why the author would choose such an obvious pen name. She forced herself to meet his disconcerting gaze.

"Yes, Monsieur. I understand _very_ clearly. Does that mean that the title of this book is likewise illegible to the ignorant passerby?"

He inclined his head. "But you would be wise to keep it out of sight all the same. The Council has become unnervingly creative of late." And he removed the glasses, once again, from his vest and began polishing them compulsively--at least, she was certain that his polishing could, at this point, serve no practical purpose.

Hermione cleared her throat. "Thank-you very much, Mr. Monteyne; we're obliged to you, but we really must be leaving. The boys may be worried about where we are."

Frank paid for her selection, and the two girls bid the shopkeeper farewell as Hermione promised to return at Christmastime. From there they made their way back to Flourish and Blott's, where Ron and Harry were ringing through their books, and shrinking them to fit their pockets. They both looked up in surprise when the girls entered.

'Oi, how long have you been out there? I thought you were still in the N.E. section...'

Harry has an equally stymied look on his face. 'When did you leave..?"

Hermione and Frank looked at each other in exasperation. Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes, and Frank shrugged. Their silent conversation was clear. That not only had they not been missed, but their absence hadn't even been noted. Boys.

8

'I'm her eighth old man; I'm Hen-ery. Hen-ery the eighth I am, I am; Hen-ery the eighth I am!'

Charles finished belting out the eighth and final verse, and sank back in her seat, out of breath.

'I feel really sorry for anyone named Henry. Really I do,' she said, laughing.

'Then I guess it's a good thing your name's not Henrietta, isn't it,' Dominic teased.

'For then, surely, we'd have to call you Jim,' added Izzie sensibly.

Ginny laughed, and looked out the front window. The road was as straight as an arrow. In the distance, though it was partially obscured by the grey clouds that seemed to be everywhere, she could see a city. At first she'd been excited because it meant a change of scenery...but that had been forty minutes ago, and it hardly seemed closer.

According to Izzie, distance could be deceiving in a completely flat place where the largest hill was a fifteen-degree incline. That wasn't, actually, completely true; they'd gone down quite a big hill about twenty minutes ago. Although Ginny hadn't even seen it until they were on their way down. If there was one thing Ginny would always remember about this trip, it was that it was very long, very flat, and very straight. And, she thought, that Charles had an incredible wealth of knowledge when it came to pointless, yet amusing songs. She'd started singing right after Uncle Larry finished his entire--and extensive--repertoire of Irish drinking songs, and hadn't stopped in, Ginny looked at her new watch, two hours and nine minutes.

She yawned as Charles struck up another tune, wondering when, if ever, they were going to reach that city.

'Gee Mum, I wanna run, back to Saskatchewan. Gee Mum, I wanna run ho-o-ome!'

8

"Hey! I knew you were gone, give me some credit!" Harry objected loudly as the four walked down the alley.

Harry glared at Frank. 'See,' he commented, 'I told you I was more observant than him.'

Ignoring Ron's indignant reply, Hermione frowned at Harry. Hadn't she just been thinking about Harry's perceptiveness just yesterday? Shuffling the thought to the back of her mind, she gestured to Harry. 'Sure, sure. So what's next?'

Frank stuck her hands into her pockets and skipped ahead a few paces before turning to face the others and walking backwards in step. 'We've only got Malkins'—that's what it's called, right?' At Hermione's nod, she continued, 'we've got to go to Malkins', and than we can meet you two at the Leaky Cauldron...or are you finished?'

Ron shook his head, and Hermione answered, 'No, we haven't been to the apothecary--'

"Oh, Frank--" Harry's warning was cut off as someone bumped into Frank, who stumbled, and then brushed past Ron without even glancing behind to offer an apology of some kind.

Hermione frowned, her gaze briefly following the figure before turning back to her friends. She looked at her watch. 'It's quarter after four now, shall we say meet at the Leaky Cauldron by five?

Harry nodded. 'Sure thing; should we synchronize our watches this time?' he said teasingly.

'Oh shush,' Hermione scolded lightly, 'just be there at five.'

With a salute, Frank took Harry by the arm, and they walked off in the direction of Madame Malkins'. Ron and Hermione, however, didn't notice this because Ron was beaming at his girlfriend.

'Is there a reason that you didn't tell them we'd been across the street from the apothecary for twenty minutes?'

Hermione smiled and coloured slightly. 'Of course not. Why trouble them? I'm sure they wouldn't be interested.'

'And besides,' she added, 'we have a very good excuse.'

Ron looked at her with amused incredulity as they loosely retraced their steps. 'Which is what?'

Hermione smiled, and took his hand. 'I'm sure I'll think of one if the need arises.'

8

There was no mistaking it now. The roiling clouds visibly darkened the sky. The grey light of the morning had passed, as had Saskatoon, where they'd stopped for sandwiches in a European style café. Ginny was certain now, there was a storm behind them, and it was coming up fast.

Charles' singing had finally abated, and they were amusing themselves playing a game of Places. Unfortunately, Dominic had just named Asia, and after Alabama, Alaska, Africa, Atlanta, Alberta, Argentina, and Albania, Ginny was thoroughly sick of 'a's.

She racked her brains for any other place beginning with 'a'.

'Ah ha,' she said at last, as the other three waited expectantly, 'Atlantis.'

Charles grinned, 'Saskatchewan.'

'Never-Never Land.'

'Dundern.'

'Nigeria.'

'The Alpes.'

Izzie looked thoughtful. 'Alpes. Are you sure you want to make it plural? I'd be perfectly happy with one Alp, but if you must make it plural, I guess I'll say Sahara.'

Ginny groaned. What was it with Canadians and their 'a's? No matter how it was spelled, it was downright annoying.

8

Why Harry had ever let Frank talk him into this, he'd never know. Upon spotting the dress robes presented in Madame Malkins' display window, Frank had dashed into the store, a look of intense glee on her face. By the time he, himself had crossed the threshold, she already had four pairs to try on, and had even picked up two for him. How thoughtful. Now he was laden with a neat dozen, and waiting outside the changing room to view the sixth robe she'd selected.

The first five had turned out to be varying neon shades, and he wondered, not for the first time, how he got stuck searing his eyes on women's dress robes.

Frank had allowed herself to be measured for school robes, which were being made up as she experimented.

The door handle turned, and out she came in a glorious dress of...black. Why black?

She spun once and asked, 'So what do you think?'

'It's black?' Harry ventured.

Frank rolled her eyes. 'Oh! You're kidding! I thought I was wearing a yellow dress. Damn Charles and her uncanny ability to destroy all of my possessions. If only I had my glasses this mixup could have been avoided all together.' She looked at him disapprovingly. 'What I meant was, how does it look? Is the cut okay? It's not actually black, look.'

She poked her hip, and a white ripple blossomed from the part her finger had touched. Poking a few more times, she soon had a lattice of white running across her torso.

Harry blinked, and Frank bit her lip.

'Too much zebra?' she asked. He nodded, and she disappeared back into the stall.

Four dresses later, she still wasn't satisfied. The yellow she _did_ try on was too dull, the purple too happy. At last she emerged wearing a rusty orange selection with a pale green piece of fabric tied around her middle. As she walked closer, he thought there might be a small green flowery pattern on the orange.

'Well?'

'It looks,' Harry began, and then he realized, 'good. The orange is nice.' The orangy colour made her pale hair seem almost yellow, but a nice yellow, he thought. Her brown eyes stood out intensely and at the moment they were looking amusedly at him from underneath her hair.

'It's amber. But you think so too?' she corrected automatically, smiling nonetheless. 'This is definitely the best, though I think it could do with being a bit lower cut...'

Harry looked mildly alarmed as she flounced back to her stall; when she emerged, she was clothed in the garments she'd come with, and was holding the dress she'd chosen.

'I'm going to go buy this, you'd better get started.' And she gestured to the now empty changing room before heading for the counter.

With minimal grumbling, Harry forced all the robes through the narrow doorway and locked it behind him.

8

'You know,' Ron whispered, dropping a kiss on her nose and then tweaking the aforementioned body part with a finger, 'I'm getting kind of attached to this spot.'

They had, once again, not quite made it to the apothecary, and were instead nestled in a now very familiar alleyway.

Hermione smiled and intercepted his hand, placing her own kiss on the tip of his index finger.

'Indeed. Even though we told Harry and Frank we'd be there—'

He interrupted her with a kiss. Unseen behind them, four black-clad figures entered the apothecary. Neither did they grasp the significance when the door locked, and a sign appeared in the window saying 'closed'. And it was there, from a state of blissful ignorance, did they finally notice the screaming.

8

It was when Charles was halfway through mending the hole in the bucket with a straw that the first streak of lightning split the sky.

Immediately the car fell silent, and three faces pressed themselves against the windows. A sharp bolt of thunder rent the air, and rang in Ginny's ears. The storm was all around them, and, as if that first strike had been a fissure in the dark clouds, more were conducted in every direction.

Ginny could feel the air hum, a numbing sensation that made its way to her bones and stayed there, making the spectacular outdoor panorama feel insignificant next to the trembling of her body as she fought for another breath. It was both wonderful and terrifying. She felt that perhaps she had never quite appreciated the power of the lightning, the raw energy that made her hair stand on end, her ears ring, and her fingertips tingle. The intensity and magnificence: the pulse of the storm.

Izzie was pressed against the glass, and from where she was sitting, Ginny was the constant flashes of light reflecting in the other girl's wide eyes. Not blinking, Izzie looked as though she wanted desperately to be out, out of the car, out in the air with the storm all around her.

A bolt stuck behind the van, and for a moment the faces of her companions looked as grave and wanting as Izzie, before everything was dark again. Thunder rattled the windows, and Ginny's eyelids fluttered. In that single moment, all she could see were Izzie's eyes: the whites. Only the whites.

8

Behind the locked door, Harry was already planning his defense for when he walked out in this lurid yellow thing that was on the top of his pile. Shuddering, he picked it up and stuffed it behind the others, hoping against hope that something—anything—would prevent him from trying it on. Instead he looked to the next one, which, he was pleased to see, was a respectable red. Thankfully, it wasn't as vibrant as the one Frank had tried on, being instead much darker, darker even than the renowned Gryffindor red. Pulling it off the hanger, he quickly shrugged it over his shoulders.

Stopping, he critically observed his reflection. It wasn't that bad; he had to admit, Frank more or less knew what she was doing.

As he was unlocking his door, he heard a muffled grunt, and a thump. He frowned, and pushed the door open a crack. There was a dark shape lying on the floor at the front of the shop, and three people dressed in black moving among the racks.

Trying not to draw attention to himself, Harry reached for his wand. Silently he cursed. It was under the dress robes. Frantically, he pulled up the hem, and slipped his wand out of his back pocket. He crouched behind the nearest rack of clothing, and took aim. The closest one had his wand out and pointing to an elderly woman perusing the baby wear. With a quiet stunning spell, the woman slumped to the floor, and Harry cursed again. Before the man in black could get to anyone else, Harry muttered a quick spell and, as the man collapsed, darted behind another rack.

Frank was still talking to the sales assistant, and neither seemed to have noticed the peculiar happenings. The two remaining black-clad felons were closing in on the chattering women. Frank was talking animatedly with her hands, making a plucking or weaving motion. The other woman nodded, and her eyes followed Frank's quickly moving hands, a faint frown on her face. The two strangers were advancing from either side, and one raised his wand, sending a red spell sweeping across the room, where he hit the sales assistant, who crumpled.

As far as Harry could tell, the only people still conscious were the two unwelcome visitors, Frank, and himself.

Harry felt as though he couldn't have accurately described what happened next if he was given a hundred years to do it. It looked like Frank flicked her wrists, as though trying to rid herself of a pesky fly or a distasteful odour, and quite suddenly there were was white light everywhere. Almost like a web of laser beams, Harry thought. It encased the two would-be attackers, and Harry felt the hair prickling at the back of his neck before everything went black.


	10. The Handwriting on the Wall

_Many a friendship -- long, loyal, and self-sacrificing -- rested at first upon no thicker a foundation than a kind word._

_Frederick W. Faber_

8

Somewhere in the dark and dusty recesses of his mind, Harry was aware that he was lying on a hard wooden floor in what he dimly remembered to be Madame Malkins' Robes for All Occasions. Aware though he was, when it came to actually doing something about that, he was hopeless. His arms felt suspiciously as though they'd been cemented to the floor, and his eyelids were being most uncooperative. As strange as this was, it was nothing compared to the feeling that his veins were filled with Fire Whisky, something that was, unexplainably, both painful and enjoyable at once.

Then Harry sensed two cold hands lay themselves on his chest, and he felt the heat leaving his body. He found himself reluctant to see it go. Almost as if he'd been a barrel of warm toffee, which, as it cooled, became stiff and distressed. Rather desperately, he tried to hold onto some of the warmth, half feeling that he would split in two or explode into dust if it left him.

Abruptly, he returned to consciousness, and found himself sitting upright, and forcing Frank's hands away from him. When he thought she was far enough back, he jumped to his feet and retreated a few steps, breathing heavily. Dizzy, he grabbed the nearest clothes rack for support. He was drowsy and disoriented, but the most surprising thing was the look of absolute shock on Frank's face.

She was as pale as a sheet, and he could see the whites all around her pupils. Her hands were held out in front of her as if to ward off some unknown evil, and they were trembling.

'H-Harry?'

His knees felt weak, but he let go the rack, trying to stand up straighter. He frowned.

'I think so. What's wrong?' He could feel some of his strength returning, and walked shakily over to her. He tried to take one of her hands, but she backed away, lowering her hands to her sides.

'You're—you're—'

But there was an explosion outside, and both teens snapped to attention. Frank shook her head violently.

'Later. You're going to tell me everything. Right now, we need to get these people out of here.'

She dashed to the front of the shop, and dragged an unconscious man away from the window.

'Here,' she pushed the man into Harry's still shaky arms, 'take him to the back, and wake those other two. I'll take care of our visitors.'

She then pulled out her wand, and with a flick, the shutters on the windows slammed shut, and the door at the front of the shop locked with an audible click.

Harry retrieved his own wand from the floor where it had fallen from his hand, and whispered 'Ennervate.'

The man's eyelids fluttered, and he looked directly into Harry's spectacled gaze.

'What in Merlin's name happened?'

Harry offered him a hand up off the floor, and shook the hair out of his eyes. He was getting a terrible headache.

'There's been an attack in Diagon Alley, can you apparate?'

The man nodded. 'Yes, but—'

'Then I suggest you do it, as soon as possible. Do you need a moment to recover?' He knew from experience how disorienting it was to be stunned.

'No, no, I'm fine. Right. I'm fine.' The man seemed to be trying to reassure himself. 'But who are you? Why are you here?'

Harry shook his head again, and immediately wished he hadn't, as it only made his head ache worse. Unfortunately, his hair must have moved, because the man's eyes immediately moved to his forehead. Harry resisted the urge to groan. 'It doesn't matter; just go.' And he turned his back on the man, walking over to where he'd seen the elderly woman fall.

There was a quiet pop from behind him that was almost lost in the noise from the commotion from outside. Spotting the hem of a periwinkle robe under the racks, and quickened his pace, kneeling beside the woman. Her white hair was fanned across her face, and she was collapsed across her bright blue purse. Harry carefully rolled her over, easing the bag out from under her, and brushing her hair back gently. Taking out his wand, he spoke the words to rouse her, and she winced as if in pain.

'Can you hear me? Are you hurt?' Harry asked quietly, as his head was still bothering him.

The woman took a deep breath, and tried to sit up. She winced again.

'I think I've broken my hip.' She opened her eyes. 'Where am I?'

'You're in Madame Malkins', but there's some kind of attack outside; it's not safe here. Can you stand?'

The woman shook her head, her eyes now shut in pain. Harry gritted his teeth, and, ignoring his own pain, slid his arms under the woman, and pushed upwards with his legs. This was familiar, he thought, except he'd been rather wetter when he was carrying Ginny. And his head hadn't then felt like a bludger was loose inside it. He adjusted the old woman in his arms, and took a step to make sure he wouldn't fall. Turning around, he saw Frank standing beside the sales assistant and looking at him strangely.

'She's hurt...Mungo's...' Harry managed to gasp through the pain in his head.

Frank raised her wand, and Harry felt the weight lifted from his arms. Black spots danced before his eyes, and he breathed a little easier.

'Thanks, sorry, I forgot.'

The woman, now floating a few inches above Harry's arms, didn't appear to have noticed the change.

'All right,' Frank took control, 'Beryl, there's a fireplace in the back room, right? I need to you to take this woman to a healer's. Do you have any Floo powder?' Beryl nodded. 'Good, take care, and get out as fast as you can.'

Beryl the sales assistant looked as attentive as a private receiving orders, and nodded sharply before leading the floating customer away from the conflict outside.

Frank turned to Harry and, not meeting his eyes, opened her mouth to speak. The two large display windows at the front of the shop shattered, and four or five people (Harry wasn't sure; they blended with the spots already dancing before his eyes) climbed in. One picked up a fallen manikin and hurled it into the desk where it skidded over the side and landed on the previous intruders. They'd been unceremoniously piled there, fortunately no more awake than the manikin.

When the new interlopers saw Frank and him, they advanced toward them, smiling unkindly at the two out-numbered teens. However, though Harry couldn't see it, Frank was returning their smiles with a delighted grin of her own. This had nothing to do with how good Harry looked in his dress-robes, and everything to do with the intimidating persons in front of her. Barely sparing Harry a glance, she moved in front of him, centered her weight, and raised her wand.

Harry, if he had been in any state to do so, would have done the same, but the din of the attack was washing over him in waves of pain. It warbled like a badly tuned radio, and Harry swayed with it, fighting for consciousness.

If he'd not been so pre-occupied, he would have noticed Frank fending off their attackers, and if his head hadn't been saturated with pain, he would have noticed her winning.

She cast a pale yellow beam of light with her wand, and followed it up with a pulse of energy from her other hand. The man she'd been aiming at was overcome with violent hiccups and then knocked off his feet by the second curse. He barreled into the person behind him and they both went down in a heap.

Frank dodged two curses sent her way and fired two quick curses with her wand. Her smile widened when they cleanly hit their marks, and two more went down: a woman who went more up than down as she was lifted bodily by the front of her robes and hung on a hook near the ceiling, and the other man, who suddenly found himself attached to the floor when he conveniently tripped and his limbs stuck to the hardwood.

The last assailant began a quick fox trot with the formerly discarded manikin as the radio struck up a jaunty tune from its place on a shelf at the back of the room.

Harry, his head reeling from pain and hardly noticing the surreal tableau, suddenly lost the feeling of the ground beneath his feet, and his legs gave out. Just before the world went black, he felt two strong arms wrap around him and fire swept back into his veins.

8

Ginny closed her eyes, trying to block out the storm, but even the backs of her eyelids were awash with the white light. A brief relief came as thunder crashed, and the lightning strikes abated. White spots glided across her field of vision, and she opened them, noticing that the three Canadians were still more concerned with the storm outside.

Her head was pounding in an unfortunate offbeat to the thunder. The flash of lightning and its subsequent rending of the air around them were doing nothing for the pain either. It felt like someone was trying to squish her brain through a plastic straw with a sledgehammer. Not a nice feeling. Desperately, she dug the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, trying once again to block out the light, the noise, and the pain.

And suddenly, it stopped. Lightning flashed once behind them, but the thunder sounded much more distant than it had a moment ago. Without its sharp cracks, she felt that she was regaining at least a semblance of sanity. She massaged her temples and took deep, calming breaths. Izzie, Dominic, and Charles, however, were still staring, their bodies tense, expectant.

Ginny frowned, uncomprehending until from seemingly right above them, light flared briefly followed by a crack so loud, she was almost certain she could hear it echoing inside her head. Every echo caused more pain, and the ripples spread. All she could see now was white light: her head was full of it. Every pore, every thought—her consciousness was teetering on a precipice. She struggled for control, and for a moment, she thought she had it, but alas. Her concentration failed, and she was enveloped by the blessed darkness.

8

Hermione's eyes flew open, and her neck whipped around.

'Damn!'

It was rapidly becoming chaos. Shoppers who had been finishing their final purchases in the fading light were taken by surprise when predictably black-robed figures suddenly slipped from various hiding places: inside empty cauldrons on display, and from behind locked doors. When the first curse flew, everyone panicked. They'd obviously been reading the Prophet because even though no one knew why it was happening, they all knew what was happening. It was one of the seemingly random attacks by the followers of He Who Must Not Be Named. The kinds of things parents tell their children to inspire fear and obedience. A deadly nighttime story that was quickly becoming a reality.

Making a split decision, Hermione plunged a hand into her shorts' pocket and pulled out two paperclips.

'What are those?' Ron asked, his head swiveling between the peculiar behavior of his girlfriend and the commotion in the street.

'Paperclips. Emergency portkeys. Frank's got others.' Hermione seemed reduced to one or two word sentences as she concentrated on the stationary supplies in her hands.

'I've just got to hook—'

But she never finished her sentence because just then, a shout pierced the din.

'Gran!'

Hermione's head shot up, eyes sharp, and frowned.

'That was Neville!'

She worriedly met Ron's gaze. Together, they dashed out of the alley, and into pandemonium.

8

Neville Longbottom was distressed. He and his Grandmother were shopping for school supplies in Diagon Alley, and she was mildly berating him for having broken his old wand.

'Really, Neville. I don't see how you could have been so careless. That was your father's wand, you know. I'm immeasurably proud of you for holding your own against the followers of He Who Must Not Be Named, but that was a _very_ good wand. He got his Auror's certification with it. I only hope this new one will be sufficient.'

She was bustling along a step or two ahead of him as he carried their various purchases. His new wand, pine and dragon heartstring was, though his grandmother didn't know it, resting placidly up his sleeve. Ollivander had seemed particularly happy to see him, though he too lamented the loss of Frank Longbottom's wand. But then, Neville reflected, Ollivander seemed happy to see anybody.

He adjusted the weight of the bags, and marched resolutely after his gran. He smiled slightly as he felt the cool wood of his wand brush up against his forearm. It was really nice having a wand that was actually his. He felt more confident, and, though he didn't dare admit it, he thought he'd felt something different about this wand: something better and stronger. But of course that was absurd...and so his denial continued.

Neville was used to these kinds of shopping trips by now, as it was going to be his sixth year at Hogwarts. Every year he trailed behind Gran while she picked out what he'd need for the upcoming semester. It was never very exciting. He only wished that he could perhaps see someone he knew. Normally at least one of his classmates was out shopping on the weekend before school started. His gran turned sharply around the corner, as she led him to the apothecary, their last stop of the day.

Unexpectedly, Gran stopped, standing poised in from of the apothecary. There was a 'Closed' sign on the door.

'Well really,' she began, clutching her big red handbag self-righteously. But at that moment, there was a sound of breaking glass, and the window to their right shattered with a quiet tinkling. Everyone in the alley was still now, their heads turned to the broken window, each daring the other to speak first, and enquire about the peculiarity. Some began moving quickly away, as if unwilling to take a part in the oddity of the broken window. People had begun to murmur amongst themselves, and others were looking around for whatever might have caused the broken window.

Neville noticed the change at once. The atmosphere of the crowd went from curious to alarmed in the blink of an eye. Something was definitely not right. This was affirmed a moment later when the first curse flew. Neville watched it arc through the air, a beam of yellow light, coming straight for him.

Acting instinctively, Neville grabbed his Grandmother's arm and pulled her away as the curse hit the framework of the broken window. With a feeling of detachment, Neville knew with utmost certainty that they had to leave immediately.

More curses were flying now, and he hurried as he weaved through the crowd, dragging his gran by the arm. He'd grown a bit in the past year, and took advantage of his greater height to roughly shoulder his way through the panicking people.

The air above them was lit up like a cruel and brutal display of fireworks. People around him were screaming, and Neville staggered when the man he had been about to elbow out of the way was hit by a green beam of light, and fell to the ground, his eyes glassy.

People jostled, and Neville tightened his grip on his grandmother's arm. She was calling at him to slow down, but he didn't listen, couldn't listen. He knew he had to get her to safety.

There was a yell from above him, and Neville looked up in horror as a woman came hurtling through the air, straight for him. His mind went blank as she came closer and closer. Neville finally reacted. Pushing his grandmother away, he brandished his new wand and yelled 'Mobilicorpus!'

The falling female slowed, then stopped, and when Neville released her from the spell, she was almost to the ground. Crying, she stuttered a thanks, and took off running. Neville turned back to his grandmother, and saw her a few feet away, her wand out, trying to fight her way through the bedlam, calling for him to wait for her. Fortunately the people were thinning, as more of them rushed down the alley, away from the disordered crowd.

He started to run, reaching out to her, but stopped short when something flew directly over-head. It whipped through his hair, and hit his gran in the shoulder. The green light seemed to seep insidiously into her dress, and as if it was happening in a time that wasn't quite logical, her vulture-topped hat fell, and her face froze in what would be her last and final expression of shock.

8

From her vantage point on the wall, Martha Holding watched as Potter fainted, and slumped to the floor. The girl with curly hair and a wicked hiccupping jinx scooped him into her arms, and together, they disappeared.

Martha frowned. Richie Danks was still fox-trotting around the room with that idiot manikin. Why was she constantly surrounded by incompetence!

Squirming, she tried to unhook herself from the wall. She kicked her legs, and flailed her arms to no effect. She called out, but Danks and his manikin were unresponsive, and everyone else was out cold. Furious, she crossed her arms and fumed. Morons, the lot of them.

8

When they found him, Neville was crouched over the late Augusta Longbottom's body, his eyes wide. He seemed lost in his own world, not really registering what was going on around him. There were bags looped around his limp wrist, though a few of the parcels had fallen out, and were now strewn haphazardly in what seemed to be his own personal field of carnage.

Ron was silent for a moment before he bent down and gently slid one arm beneath the dead woman's neck, and one under her knees. Standing, he made a gesture to Hermione with his head. She nodded, and stooped to gather Neville's parcels. Helping him stand, she took Ron's hand, and, with one last look at the dwindling fight, she looped the two paper clips together. The last thing the teens heard as they were pulled away to safety was the sound of apparating Aurors, once again, too late.

8

Ginny, her eyes closed, frowned. Something wasn't right. She didn't remember falling asleep. Still frowning, she opened her eyes, and said frown deepened. Three faces were looking down at her where she was curled up on her seat.

'Ginny?' Dominic asked uncertainly.

'How on earth did you sleep through that!' Charles added incredulously, her cheeks flushed.

Ginny, still frowning, reached up to rub her forehead, and suddenly remembered the lightning storm. She sat up abruptly and craned her neck, looking for the clouds that she'd seen perhaps moments ago. They were still there, but the only lightning flashed unthreateningly a good twenty minutes behind them.

'I-I don't know,' she began, 'I had a headache, so I must have just closed my eyes for a second...'

'It's been a bit more than a second, eh?' Izzie pointed out.

'Has it?' Ginny felt disoriented, and tried not to let it show. 'Right. Of course.'

'We should be at Pascale's soon,' Dominic commented, eyeing the dark clouds ahead of them, 'But first it looks as though we'll be going through a quite the shower.'

Sure enough, not five minutes later, the first drops hit their windows. It started as a pitter-patter, and then crescendoed abruptly as Ginny felt the impact of many liters of water pounding on the roof of the van. Air that had previously been warm was now chilled, and Ginny took deep breaths, cooling her head and clearing her mind as she watched the water run down the glass in rivulets.

8

There was a slate-blue house sitting comfortably at the end of a gravel road. It was surrounded by a knee-high picket fence, traditionally white. Equally white trim decorated the sloping eaves, and a perfectly round window was inset in the yellow front door. The brick-laid walkway led a smooth path from the porch steps, through the black-eyed susans, the hazelnuts, and the raspberry bushes, and back to the little white gate at the front of the garden. If one were to look up when standing in front of this little white gate, one would see first a white-painted porch, then the peaked gables. Further up was the darkly contrasting shingled roof, and just above that, a girl. Beside the girl was a red-brick chimney, strong and resilient. But this is not the chimney's story; that's for another time.

This girl on the widow's walk, standing sentinel above the soggy gravel road was perfectly still. One might almost miss her against the dark sky, were it not that she wore a plain white dress, and carried an immense black umbrella, easily large enough to shield two, if not three people. Rain fell, drumming an intricate solo on her capacious shelter.

She smiled when she finally saw the pacifying vehicle emerge from the spray, windshield wipers flapping furiously. Underneath the black umbrella, she wiggled her bare toes in the puddling water.

When the girl emerged from the front door a moment later, her umbrella was folded, and hooked around the banister in the entry hall where it hung, dripping steadily onto the floor.

He was getting out of the car, helping down his sister, friend, and another girl. This new girl had bright red hair that turned darker as it got wetter and wetter. She asked him something, and he smiled at her, squeezing her hand.

When he looked at the front porch, however, he only had eyes for her. A broad smile lit his face, and he walked towards her, his arms held wide. She laughed with relief, and bounded down the front steps and into his arms. He twirled her about and she laughed again, this time at his soggy and disheveled appearance. The boy's smile faded, and he said her name, clutching her shoulders, telling her how good it was to see her at last.

A throat cleared behind them, and the two turned, hurrying to help unload the van.

Standing behind the screen door, an old woman smiled. All was right once again. Satisfied, the grandmother retreated to the kitchen, where her kettle was whistling.

8

For the next few days, Harry flirted shamelessly with consciousness. Frank, his ever-present watcher, was currently stretched out on a wicker chair that she'd dragged in from Ginny's room. She had a crocheted throw pulled over her knees, and Hermione's cat curled up in her lap.

'Don't look at me like that Crookshanks, you know that there's no way I could have known.'

Crookshanks blinked and lifted his chin, waiting to be scratched. She frowned and sighed, her hands obediently massaging the orange fur.

'You think I shouldn't beat myself up about it, eh? Well it is my fault. He would have been fine, or at least mostly fine if I'd been paying attention. I got careless. I always was unbelievably crap at multi-tasking.'

She sighed and scooped the cat up in her arms, burying her face in his fur.

'And I'm so sorry about it, I just wish he'd wake up so I could tell him!'

She released the protesting cat and began scratching behind his ears.

'But there's so many things I want to know! How did it happen--and when--and who else knows? I mean, for goodness sakes, I don't even know if _he_ knows!'

Crookshanks continued to purr unsympathetically.

'Though I've been thinking. Doesn't it seem just a bit too coincidental to you? Exactly how many Fielders do you think there are?'

She stopped stroking, and he gave a plaintive mewl. She resumed.

'You're completely right. Of course there's no way of knowing. Like I can just to go up and ask someone? I'm sure that'd go over well. "Hi, I'm Frank. You haven't happened to have been feeling a bit radioactive lately, have you? No occasional glimpses through things? Do light bulbs become shockingly expletive when you approach?" Give me a break.'

Crookshanks gave her a disdainful look, stretched, his claws digging into her thighs, and bounded across the room, slipping through the door.

'It's not my fault!' Frank called, almost desperately, and buried her head in her hands.

She looked over at Harry's prone figure; his constantly disordered hair stark against the white sheets and his pale skin. His eyelids were still: concealing the life she knew they hid. If she stared hard at the sheets over his chest, she could barely make out the movement: a slight raising and falling.

She felt tears prick her eyes, and drew in a shuddering breath. How could she let this happen? She'd given back everything she'd unwrapped and tried to remove, but his system would need time to recover from the shock. She was such an idiot.

The healers were all confused about what was causing his coma, but attributed it to magical exhaustion, especially when Frank had told them that Harry had been the one to take out the attackers in Madame Malkins'. She may also have exaggerated the number, saying that three more escaped through the windows... It didn't matter in the long run, but it was the least she could do for him. Keep the healers off his case for the time being.

Her only problem was Dumbledore. For some reason, he didn't seem convinced with her fabricated story. She'd met him a few days ago, when he'd come to the Burrow after visiting the wreckage that was Diagon Alley. She'd never been good at lying, but his ice blue eyes seemed to pierce straight through her.

There had been a quiet funeral for Neville's grandmother, and she was now buried in the small Longbottom cemetery next to her late husband. Neville had gone to stay with the Lovegood's, who Frank had also met recently, and who were wonderful to Neville. Only a brief walk from the Burrow, and perfect for Neville because even though he was his grandmother's heir, he didn't quite feel up to moving into that big old house. In fact, Mr. Lovegood was talking about Neville staying with them until he graduated, which Frank thought was very considerate of him. Apparently, he'd lost his wife a few years ago, and was no stranger to grief. Neville hadn't actually told Frank all these things, but Hermione had been sharing Harry's bedside with her often enough, and sometime in the long hours of the early mornings, she'd become much more forthcoming with Frank.

Ron also spent a fair bit of time in Harry's room (which used to be his brother Percy's), but he got fidgety, and would always end up pacing or compulsively tearing at a rip in the sofa.

He and Hermione had been spending most evenings together outside, or in the sitting room with a chessboard in front of them, neither one playing. Frank noticed these things silently, not begrudging them the time they spent together, free of worry.

The British Ministry of Magic was in an uproar. The Daily Prophet was having a field day, pinning the Ministry from every angle, and there had been countless resignations because of what was being called the Diagon Alley Disaster.

Most people were blaming the Ministry and specifically the Minister, Cornelius Fudge. It was looking more than probable that he would be forced to resign.

According to what she'd heard from Ron, Hermione, the twins, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and Dumbledore, this was a good thing.

Thoughts jumbled, and guilt gnawing at her conscience, Frank closed her eyes and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

8

_Ginny,_

_Why haven't you responded to my last letter? I know it takes a few days for inter-continental flights, but I can only hope it's coming soon, because I'm anxious to hear about how you're doing in Canada._

_There was an attack on Diagon Alley the other day. We're mostly okay. Ron and I are fine, but it's lucky we were carrying emergency portkeys, because we were almost right beside the source of the trouble. Neville's gran is dead, and he's been staying with Luna. Harry exhausted himself somehow though, so he is still in a coma, but the healers say he'll pull through. Still, it's the oddest thing; they have no idea what happened to him. I was reading the reports, and for all appearances it seems that he was drained magically, but he doesn't show the classic symptoms for fatigue, nor over-exertion. I'll keep you updates with how he's doing._

_The Ministy is in big trouble, and everyone is pushing for Fudge to resign. You can't blame them really, can you? I mean, his dependability, though we knew otherwise, suffered a major blow when he had to publicly announce that Voldemort is back, and now that he's failed to protect Diagon Alley... Well, let's just say his chances don't look good. If Harry's awake when he actually does resign, we might throw a party. It would be ample reason to celebrate._

_Ollivander has disappeared, and strangely, his shop is otherwise in perfect order, as if, perhaps, he was expecting to leave. Almost all the rest of Diagon Alley is in ruins. Forty-two people died, and Saint Mungo's is full of injured people._

_Miraculously, the twins' shop escaped much of the damage. Their sign caught fire, but otherwise, none of the Death Eaters seemed interested in a joke shop. Your mum says it's a miracle._

_I didn't want you to be left out of the loop, or to hear about the Disaster and worry. You'll probably get one from your mum when she stops smothering the twins and telling them how clever they are. I'm not joking. That actually happened._

_Write me back soon, and try not to worry._

_Hermione_

8

_Ginny darling,_

_Hermione is concerned that she may have been a bit harsh in her letter. Everyone is fine. Your father's been very busy at work, because they've assigned everyone who hasn't resigned to working on the Disaster. They've placed him in the Department of Magical Law, where he's been sorting through the files of the Death Eaters they have in custody._

_Fred and George are fine. The stores on either side of theirs are almost beyond repair, but they've said that when they painted their shop, they placed wards around the walls to stop any of their inventing accidents from disturbing their neighbors. Lucky for them, it kept the Disaster out as well. For once, I'm thankful for their ridiculous inventions and the scorch marks on my ceilings. It's worth every single headache they've ever given me, though don't you dare tell them that. The two of them been helping with the Diagon Alley cleanup._

_Harry is still unconscious, but the healers say he should recover soon. His energy levels are rising, and he ought to be awake any day now. I know you're probably in fits about him, but beyond looking a bit peaky, he's as right as rain. Or will be when he wakes up._

_We are all astoundingly safe; there's really nothing to worry about._

_Tell me how it has been going in Canada. Also, ask your new friends if they'd like to come home with you for Christmas; we've always got room._

_Take care of yourself,_

_All my love,_

_Mum_

8

Ginny tossed her damp shirt onto the top of the pile and stepped into the shower. She wrung out her already-wet hair, and turned the water on. She shivered as the hot stream hit her cold skin, and winced as her limbs began to thaw.

They'd arrived at Pascale's almost an hour ago, and she still had no idea what to think of the strange girl. She'd never met anyone with hair as pale as hers, not even Fleur Delacour. It was so pale it seemed to shine of its own accord, kind of a ghostly white. Not, Ginny admitted, that she'd had much time to properly meet the girl. Pascale and Dominic were so wrapped up in each other, she doubted they'd even realized she was there. Izzie and Charles, and Pascale's grandmother and Uncle Larry had immediately sat down for tea in a comfortable, old friends kind of way, so when Pascale's grandmother suggested she take a shower, Ginny had jumped at the opportunity.

Not that the near-scalding water didn't feel heavenly against her chilled skin, but there was a thought, a niggling worry, something Ginny couldn't forget. She would swear that she hadn't fallen asleep. How could she? One minute she'd had a raging headache, barely able to move, and the next in a peaceful slumber? And what was up with Dominic, Izzie, and Charles during the storm? Sure it had been interesting. She'd even go so far as to call it creepy. But they'd seemed almost unnaturally absorbed. Then when she thought about how the storm made her feel, Ginny got a sharp shiver despite the hot water. She'd felt torn, as if by two of those pulling things that her father had brought home shortly before Ron started Hogwarts. They were attracted to each other in a very particular way... or to metal. What were they called? She thought back to the cool summer day that she and Ron had traipsed all around the house trying to find things to stick them to. Her favourite had been the kettle, because of the loud ringing noise they made when the force to stick became too strong, and the magnet was pulled out of her hand. Ah ha. It had felt like she was being pulled apart by two really big magnets. She frowned and blew out a breath, spraying water off her nose. Two really, really big magnets.

Ginny turned off the water, and wiped her face with her hands, dislodging water droplets. She wrung out her sopping hair, and reached for the pale yellow towel. She smiled when she found it to have been sitting under a warming charm.

Once wrapped in the soft and dry terry-cloth comfort, Ginny bent down, delving into the pile of damp clothes and emerging triumphant with her wand in hand.

Ten minutes and quite a few drying spells later, Ginny was dressed and busy plaiting her hair. It was good for the soul, she decided. There was nothing simpler, and nothing quite so soothing as a single braid. Idly scratching her shoulder, Ginny finished it off, tied it, and stepped out into the hall.

8

_Hello. How was your morning? Good, I trust. I've been in the garden. I've finished picking the last of the raspberries, and the gnomes are adding another layer to their fort. I am wishing that the rain will wait until they're finished, or it's all going to come down in a large pile of mud._

_How do you like raspberry jam? I've got a recipe of my mother's that is very pleasant on scones, and the batch I made last night should be cooled. We could have a picnic while we watch the gnomes. They're amazing. Their constructions are so intricate, I have no notion of why anyone would want to toss them out of the garden. They've built a trench now to convey water to their underground mud baths. I think it's excellent. Though, I'm not sure why they'd want to be any dirtier, and the stream is getting a little bit muddy, but that's fine. It'll wash away. That's its purpose._

_I will be in the kitchen in ten minutes. The picnic basket is in the pantry._

Neville smiled, refolded the note into the airplane that had flown moments before through his open window, and slid it into his back pocket. He was sitting on the bed in the Lovegood's guest room. It was a nice bed. Soft, but springy. The duvet was covered with bluebells. He knew now that there was a matching spread on Luna's bed, and curtains with the same print hanging in the kitchen. He slid a hand through his hair, and took a deep breath. Glancing in the mirror across the room, Neville immediately wished he hadn't. His usual mousy brown hair was marred by a pale but easily distinguishable streak where he'd been passed over by the curse that killed his gran. It was a constant reminder of what he'd allowed to happen. Neville grit his teeth and tugged sullenly on the colorless lock. Various people, clearly feeling pity towards him had tried, to no avail, to fix it magically, but nothing they did made any difference.

A faint tune sifted through the open window, and Neville recognized Luna's voice. When she sang, she sung without any restraint: no self-consciousness at all. There were no words, and her melody was constantly changing. She sang simply for the joy of it, and Neville was sure he would now recognize it anywhere. He felt a wave of gratitude as he recognized that he'd never really appreciated her unquestioning kindness until now. She didn't press him, but whenever he was so full of thoughts or guilt or grief that he felt like boiling over, she was always there to listen and sooth. There was almost a lulling quality about her, a special trait that enabled her to acknowledge problems and hardships, acknowledge them and move on, forgiving, but not forgetting. He admired her for it, and would ever be thankful.

Smiling once more, Neville shouldered his thoughts and walked out of the room, the tranquil tune following him down the hall on his way to the kitchen for some raspberry jam and scones.

8

_A/N: Hello, anyone who is reading this story. It's been a while since I've had a decent review, and I'd be much obliged, since keeping all of my plot points straight in my head and on the screen is a tiring and thankless pursuit. Thank-you if you do decide to tell me what you think; you will make a very stressful week a little less arduous._


	11. Time After Time

The only reason for time is so that everything doesn't happen at once.

-Albert Einstein

8

Harry stared in fascination at the man sitting across the table from him. The stranger was wearing a pink feather boa to match sparkling high-heels and a tasseled pink handbag. The bag itself, which struck Harry unpleasantly of Umbridge, emitted a steady tick accompanied by an antithetical tock that was grating on his nerves.

The man laid down a five. Harry looked at him shrewdly, calculating the importance of the play.

He retaliated with a four. The man's hand gave a tremor, but he disguised it by tossing the boa back over his shoulder. He played a queen.

Harry flipped over a six, and waited. The man scratched his nose. One of his pink feathers floated languidly to settle on top of the pile of cards. Harry's eye twitched.

8

Pascale cradled her mug of hot tea and glanced at Dominic through her bangs. The hem of her dress was still wet, but she didn't notice. He'd grown since she'd last seen him. He was a little taller, and his shoulders were broader. She'd felt the considerable difference it made when he'd spun her around. These latest changes were minor, however, when compared to how much he'd changed in the time she'd known him. He'd gone from a chubby six-year old playing on her father's swing-set to a fine-looking and accomplished young man. Pascale smiled softly. Fine-looking indeed. He also knew her better than anyone else alive. The two were sitting facing each other on either end of a dark-green loveseat. They were relaxed, but she could feel his exhilaration from the rush of the storm. Their eyes met and he raised an eyebrow. She smiled back and moved closer to him.

'How have you been?' he asked as if he didn't know.

'Quite well,' she replied, playing along.

'Have there been many storms like this lately?' he said questioningly as he glanced toward the water trickling down the windowpanes.

'None that you haven't known about, I'm sure,' she said, grinning.

The corners of his eyes crinkled and he shrugged innocently. She reached over and poked him lightly in the ribs.

'Hey! I didn't deserve that.' Dominic squirmed and caught her finger in his hand. Turning it, he lightly traced the lines on her palm with his index finger.

Slowly, almost tentatively, she leaned her head on his shoulder. 'It's good to see you again.' She said softly, twining their fingers together.

Dominic lifted his other hand to brush away a lock of hair that had fallen in her eyes. 'You too.' He said, and smiled.

The two sat in silence for a moment before Dominic whispered, as if reluctant to break the peaceful moment, "So what did you think of Ginny?"

Pascale tensed involuntarily. Ginny. Not exactly the person she was most concerned with at the moment. This moment in particular. "Honestly? I haven't given her much thought. Why? She's not going to be around much longer, is she? Bien, I know that we're playing host while Frank's with her family, but back at school we can forget her, non? It'll be the four of us this year, sans Frank."

Dom made a noncommittal noise. Concern flashed through her, and she dropped his hand to turn and stare at the boy. His eyes were partially hidden by his hair: a maneuver he used when he was trying to hide something. Pascale wasn't sure if he knew about the unconscious habit, but found it infinitely useful in reading her friend's unvoiced comments.

"You like her, don't you," she said, though it wasn't a question. She hoped her tone hadn't been _too_ accusatory.

"She's a nice girl," he defended, though he looked uncomfortable.

"Well that's nice that she's nice. But we can't be friends with her."

"Pascale, we already _are_ friends with her. She fits in well, or at least she would if Izzie would get off her horse." He sought her hand in what he thought was probably a placating gesture. "I don't see why we can't keep her around."

She let him hold it, but left her hand mostly limp, telling him that he did not have her approval. "Dominic, you know _exactly_ why we can't 'keep her around'; I'm still shocked that she weathered a trip through that storm with little more than a migraine."

Dom licked his lips. "There's actually been a few funny incidences. I'd be tempted to make some subtle references about it if it weren't that I've never felt her make any sort of field."

"Dominic Hector Roth, you would do no such thing! We talked about this when Frank was accepted for the exchange. We have absolutely no idea if the selection process for the switch was genuine, or if we've been particularly targeted. With us being so exclusive at school, this is the perfect opportunity to infiltrate our defenses!"

Dominic wore a pained and slightly exasperated expression. "Don't you think you're being a little melodramatic? With the exception of a single slip up with Gramme, we've never given anyone a reason to find our behaviour suspicious."

Pascale frowned. "I don't even know why we're having this discussion, Dom. On a déja décidé avant Frank est parti pour Hogwarts."

"Oy vey, I know we already decided, it just that Ginny... she's..." Dominic sighed. "You're probably right. But I still want us to include her while she's here. Maybe you could get to know her a bit, take a look at her MAN?

She tightened her grip on his hand, and leaned back into his warmth. "I know it's difficult to keep everyone at arms length. If you want me to, I'll do my best by Ginny."

"Thanks. I really do appreciate it."

"An," Pascale verbalised, not really meaning anything by it, only that she wanted to sit a while more with him.

8

Muriel heard the bell and frowned. It was almost tea-time and she certainly wasn't expecting anyone. She briefly considered ignoring whoever was interrupting and if it turned out later to be important, blaming it on her poor hearing. Not that she had poor hearing, really, but being old had its advantages. Her wrinkled hand wavering above her kettle, she made a decision and stalked, irritated, to her front door. If she'd been forced at wandpoint to guess the identity of her uninvited visitor, the person who now stood on her stoop would have been nearly the last.

"Percival, what on earth are you doing here?"

The boy winced. For all his airs, he'd always shunned his given name. She almost smiled, because that was, of course, why she always conveniently forgot to call him otherwise. After all, she was getting on in years, and her memory was not what it used to be.

"Well?" Muriel Hathersby was a woman of routine, and she'd been sitting down to tea at the exact same time for seventy years; if her grand-nephew did not hurry up she would be late, and _extremely_ displeased. She looked at her watch.

"Tea is in precisely eight minutes, come in for a cuppa and you can say whatever is it you want to say." And he followed her obediently inside while she set the china to setting itself. She noted, while she continued her preparations, that he appeared rather ill at ease, his hands bunching and unbunching his navy robes at his sides. She levitated the steeping pot and a plate of scones to table, and as the clock struck three, they sat for tea.

Pouring first a cup for her unexpected visitor and then one for herself, she added four drops of milk and stirred it gently, her eyes on her nephew. She intentionally let the silence grow as she lifted cup and saucer and took a small sip, watching him over the rim as he avoided her gaze. He'd not touched his tea.

At last, he shifted uncomfortably and looked up briefly to catch her eyes. His arms were moving slightly under the table, and she imagined that he was back to his bunching. He must have perfected an ironing charm, to have such a habit.

"Aunt Muriel," he began in his best Ministry voice, but the effect was ruined when it cracked on the last syllable. "Aunt Muriel," he tried again, "I've been offered a promotion and I'm looking for some advice."

She raised an eyebrow. He was asking _her_ advice? The poor boy must be in a state, if he had come to her for counsel.

"You know I left those ridiculous political quibbles behind long ago, Percival, I'm afraid I can't help you."

"I didn't come asking about the politics, it's more of a--er--moral dilemma."

She raised the other eyebrow and inclined her head. _Really?_ A moral problem, it was. Well that was a good deal more interesting. Especially if it involved a promotion within the Ministry of Magic. She took a sip, and Percy helped himself to a scone.

"All right, what's your story."

He looked up to meet her eyed briefly before returning them to his plate, where his fingers were worrying the poor scone to a pile of crumbs.

"I... didn't know who I could talk to, I haven't talked to Mum or Dad for months, and I haven't very many people I could consider confidants." She almost snorted. With the kind of devotion he put into his work, she doubted he had anyone - willing to be his confidant or otherwise. He continued, "But I know you used to work under the Minister, and I always thought that you hated me a little less than my siblings, and I really didn't have anywhere else to go..." The boy must have realized that he was rambling, because he stopped and took a deep breath. "It's just... I've been considered for a very... exclusive... position, that could become extremely influential but may require that I... bend... the moral constraints I currently possess." His fingers absently shredded the final piece of scone and he sat, hands hanging empty, as if he wasn't sure what to do with them.

Muriel, who despite her personal vow to leave off meddling in the affairs of the wizarding world, suddenly found her proud nephew much more intriguing. She could read between the lines. What amazed her most was not that it was Percy to be selected, no, he was the obvious choice, being most estranged from Dumbledore's war, but that he'd chosen to consult her about it. She knew that he must not think her entirely senile, or he wouldn't have come to her at all, but that he would trust her this much... Well, she was rather flattered.

"And what was your first reaction?" She asked carefully, setting down her cup and folding her hands.

"To reject it. It's not the kind of position I would have envisioned for myself, but I was... urged to reconsider, and I realize now that there would be certain benefits were I to accept."

He wasn't wrong. He'd always been her favourite among Arthur's children, both for his lack of typical Weasley traits, and his abundance of them. She knew that the words she said next would have a strong impression on the choice he was currently struggling with, so she spoke with attention and prudence. "I guess the choice then, Percival, is between your goals and your values." His face was serious, eyebrows lowered in thought as he adjusted his spectacles. "I have lived a long time and am not without regrets, but I've learned that when I am presented with a difficult decision my trepidation is often cured by asking myself which option will lead me, however far in the future, toward the person I wish to become. I have not always succeeded, mind, since that person is far from static, but by knowing that it was among my considerations, I find my regrets rather lessened."

There was a moment of silence, and her words hung heavily in the air, before his expression cleared and he stood.

"Thank-you, Aunt Muriel. I was right to seek you out; you've given me much to think about, and I am obliged. I would... appreciate you not mentioning this visit to my family, I don't think they would understand."

"No, I imagine they wouldn't. You may rest assured that I shan't say a thing about this conversation to anyone. Intermeddling is a privilege of the elderly, and even Albus Dumbledore hasn't accrued nearly enough favours to pry this out of me. Off you go, Percival; do whatever you feel to be best."

He nodded gravely, "Thank-you again; I'll see myself out."

Muriel sighed as she heard the door close. It had been so long since she'd seen that boy smile. He used to, as a boy and even as a younger man, but ever since he'd become Undersecretary to the Minister... She knew from experience how easy it was to fall into the habit of taking oneself too seriously. When she'd resigned she'd told herself never again, and she wished that that was another truth she could caution her nephew against, but felt that he wasn't yet ready to hear it. If he'd gone so far as to repress his former good humour, she knew it would be some time before they would be having that conversation. Sighing again, she began gathering the dishes, circling the table to vanish his undrunk tea. It was stone cold.

8

'Are you ready then, old man?' Gramme said shrewdly to her opponent.

'I'm ready when you are Laure,' quipped Uncle Larry from the other side of the cribbage board.

'Your doom awaits. Prepare to be skunked.'

'In your dreams, my dear.'

On either side of them Charles and Izzie sat in utmost seriousness. When the two opponents were silent, Izzie placed a deck of cards firmly between them and said ceremoniously: 'Let the Seventh Annual Cribbage Tournament begin!'

8

Harry placed his knave on the top of the now sizeable pile. It was followed by a two.

He felt a bead of sweat roll down his neck at an infinitely slow pace. He itched to wipe it away, but grit his teeth and laid down a ten.

8

Above the kitchen, where the cribbage spectacle was undergoing commencement, Ginny was wandering. The hall that her bathroom had led onto had in turn led her to a flight of steps and an entirely new set of doors. Behind the first one was a linen closet, nothing particularly exciting there, and the second was a sewing room, where balls of loose thread drifted in tangles across the floor. The door directly across the hall was unlocked as well, and from the mass of crocheted pillows littering the room, Ginny guessed it belonged to Pascale's grandmother. The room next to that was a spare room, only lightly dusty, but empty except for a single bed with a floral quilt, and an oak bureau.

Ginny, reaching another landing, turned, and walked up a short flight of stairs. Here there were two doors on the right, and three on her left. She tried the first of the three. It was a small room with yellow walls, and happy blue curtains. Her own trunk sat next to a set of large, brass bed knobs that appeared to belong to the large, brass bed set against the wall. Ginny walked in and sat on the edge of the bed. It was springy. She bounced but winced as she felt her headache threatening again. She rolled onto her side and yawned. Pulling the braid out of her hair, she distractedly thought that this would be her second nap that afternoon before drifting into an uneasy sleep.

8

Pulling out one last weed, Neville sat back on his heels to survey the small patch of herbs he'd been clearing out. Rosemary, sage, basil...he smiled in grim satisfaction. The little garden around the side of the house had been getting strangled by a plethora of weeds, some, even, that Neville didn't know the names of, which was rare and unusual. He gently dusted off a defeated-looking mint leaf.

Neville stood and brushed off his hands on his trousers. Luna was at the other end of the garden, climbing trees. If he squinted, Neville thought he might be able to see the hem of a purple skirt through the foliage. He was about to walk towards her tree when a hand came down on his shoulder. He turned.

A man stood there, in black robes and a black moustache. 'Excuse me,' he said sharply, 'would you mind directing me towards Arthur Weasley's house? I'm _lost_.' Neville frowned. There was something about the way the man said 'lost' that made him question the sincerity of his words. Neville knew that Dumbledore had placed wards preventing anyone unwelcome from finding their way to the Burrow. He knew because Mrs. Weasley had been talking about how nice it was to get a break from solicitors. She had, of course, been talking about Muggles. Unfortunately, there was nothing muggle about this man. Not only that, but how had he known that Neville was a friend of Ron's?

Neville walked the man back to the road. He pointed in the opposite direction of the Burrow. 'Follow this road,' he said, trying to sound helpful, 'and you can't miss it.'

The man's smile, stretching the pale lips beneath his moustache, clearly didn't reach his eyes. Eager to get away from the conversation, Neville turned to leave. But the man's hand was on his shoulder again, and there was the unmistakable feel of a wand pressed to his neck. Neville was suddenly aware of how empty the street was; most of the houses' occupants either at work or sleeping in.

'Don't call out,' the man cautioned in his ear. 'Take me to the Weasley's, and I'll have no reason to hurt you.'

Neville, who was thinking longingly about his wand, which was tucked safely into his jumper on the grass, heard the unspoken threat. Just because he hadn't a reason to hurt him, didn't mean he wouldn't.

8

The man tossed his blond hair out of his eyes, and countered the ten with a king. There were only a couple of cards remaining to each player. Harry turned over a seven.

Time seemed to slow as the man in pink reached for another card. Harry watched as the corner came up, and the card gradually was turned face up and placed on Harry's. It was a seven.

8

High in the old oak, Luna frowned at the strange occurrence on her front lawn. That man certainly didn't look friendly. One couldn't fault Neville for being polite, however. Her frown deepened when Neville walked off with the man, leaving his wand and jumper next to the herbs. He would be cold if the wind picked up. She saw them head in the direction of the Burrow. As soon as they were out of sight, she slid down through the branches with practiced ease. Dropping the last six feet or so, she relaced her shoes and darted across the lawn, placing Neville's wand behind her other ear, and tying his jumper around her waist.

She unlocked the door to the musty gardening shed, and from the gloom, produced an old Cleansweep.

A moment later, she was in the air, weaving between the trees. Out of sight but flying parallel to the path, Luna felt fortunate that flying was faster than walking. She twirled absently in a loose spiral, alighting on a sturdy branch to look behind her. Neville and his captor were quite a ways behind. She smiled, glad that Dumbledore had relaxed underage wand use for the summer. This ought to be rather fun.

8

The four teens were crowded around an old solid wood table. The varnish had partially worn off, and its surface was littered with dents and scratches. Fortunately, most of this damage was hidden beneath myriad complicated-looking machinery. Then again, Charlotte corrected herself, not all of it was machinery. Sure there were light bulbs and car batteries, but spools of fine thread, wood-glue, and in one case, a rubber chicken, could also be seen littering the table. She leaned back in her chair and spun around, twirling a loose antenna she'd plucked from the chaos. Not to say that all the nifty gadgets Pascale fooled around with didn't interest her, they did, but Charles just couldn't understand how the girl could spend so long taking them apart and putting them back together. She glanced across the table where Dominic and Pascale were speaking in tongues above a dissected Contiguier. What was wrong with leaving it in one piece? Absolutely nothing as far as Charles was concerned.

'_**Boing**_. _**Boing**_.'

Izzie was lying flat on her back next to the table, and throwing a red, rubber ball against the ceiling. Charles grinned mischievously and waved the antennae grandly at the ball. It stopped in midair.

'Oh poo. What was that for?' Izzie pouted and held out her hand. The ball flew to it, and she caught it, deftly. She sat up, looking smug, and turned to face the wall opposite Charles, continuing her bouncing game.

'_**Boing**_. _**Boing**_. _**Boing**_.'

Charles leaned back in her chair again, this time propping her feet on the already cluttered table. The rubber chicken flopped to the floor and she ignored it. What good was it to have a brand new Contiguier and not be able to use it because it was in eight billion pieces? It was near sacrilege, that what. Did the words user adaptation mean nothing to them? What about MAN compatibility? Unlimited sharing? Codable merging preferences? Lifetime warranty?? Not, of course, Charles reasoned, that she's want it for a life-time, no, they'd probably come out with something much smaller, attractive, and expensive before the year was out, but that didn't stop her from wanting one now. Besides, the lifetime warranty thing made it sound much more convincing when one was trying to separate one's mother from a sizeable amount of money.

She made a quiet huffing noise, and looked back at what Dom and Pascale were up to. Oh great. They had the chisel out. If Charles hadn't been so concerned for the well being of the Contiguier she may have thought that the picture of Dominic holding the fingernail-sized circuit board and Pascale tapping away at a pin-sized chisel while wearing a large gold magnifying monocle was humourous. In fact it might have been very humourous, had it not been a Contiguier that they were hammering away at. Thankfully the supper bell sounded just then, and Pascale had to put down her mallet. She crossed the room and stuck her head out the door.

'Coming!' she shouted.

Dominic looked around as if he'd just woken up. 'Where's Ginny?' he asked with a frown.

'Sleeping.' Charles said dryly, bounding out of her chair. 'Not that you noticed. She's down the hall.'

The four left the room with Charles in the lead. She stopped to knock on Ginny's door.

'Ginny?' she called. There was no answer. 'Dom, you want to wake her?'

Dominic shrugged. 'Sure. We'll be right down. Tell Gramme it smells great.'

Charles nodded, and continued down the stairs, humming one of the tunes from that morning. When the three girls reached the bottom, they turned round the banister and into the kitchen. Uncle Larry was sitting next to the cribbage board with a very smug look on his face.

'What's the score?' asked Charles, knowing the answer.

'Two nothing,' Pascale's grandmother bit out sourly in her familiar Québecois accent. Looking flushed, she wrenched open the oven and, in a gentler manner, tugged out two large round pies.

Charles immediately felt her mouth water. Tortière.

'Pascale, passe-moi les fourchettes? Six.' Gramme looked around distractedly. 'Where are the other two?'

'They're coming,' Charles answered, pulling out a chair as Pascale sought the forks, 'they'll be right down.'

8

As he fought to keep his breath steady and his fear under control, Neville reviewed his options. He could yell, but with the exception of Luna, who was too far away to be of any immediate help, there was no one to hear him. He could run, but he had no doubts about his captor's qualms when it came to making him wish he hadn't. He could try and wrestle the man's wand away from him, but as the man was quite a bit larger and no doubt much better trained than himself, Neville decided to do as the man asked. A handful of armed Weasley's had a significantly higher chance of besting this dark stranger than Neville, especially without his wand.

He walked slowly in the familiar direction, giving himself more time to think. If not for the rather insistent wand tip pressed against his neck, Neville would have stopped altogether.

Over the hill and through a small copse of trees, Neville wondered silently if the Weasleys were even home. The front porch of the Burrow came into view, and Neville stopped.

'Well here you are, sir. I'm glad to have been able to help. If you'll excuse me, I have gardening to do.' He tried to step away, but the man took a hold of his upper arm.

Neville heard him chuckle. 'Nice try, lad, but you're coming with me.' His heart began to beat faster than its already-rapid tattoo. He forced himself to stay calm. It was purposeless to alert his aggressor of his near-paralyzing fear if he didn't have to. He imagined Luna's serene demeanor, and felt his breathing come easier.

Neville walked up the front steps calculatingly, trying to step selectively on the places he knew squeaked. He opened the screen door slowly, listening happily to its noisy protestation. Then, using strength leant to him by the adrenaline and fear coursing through his body, tread down hard on his captor's instep, yanked his arm free, and dashed over the threshold.

8

Luna took flight once more, and soon came upon the Burrow. She sat, for a while, among the branches of a willow, alternatively admiring the remarkable architecture of its sloping eves and mossy chimneys and watching Neville and the stranger approach. The man was tall and muscular with a broad forehead and a thick, dark moustache. Luna supposed he would have been handsome if it were not for a cruel look about his eyes, and the absence of laugh-lines around his mouth. She heard Neville's escape attempt and tried not to laugh. His manners were going to get him into trouble one day, and this would quite possibly be it. They walked up to the house and her mirth turned to admiration when Neville slammed the screen door in the man's face. Neville's frightened face showed through the mesh, but the wards prevented the man from following. There was a growl as the man cursed and a beam of red light hit the normally wobbly door. It held steady and the man punched the screen in rage. Neville's face disappeared. Luna assumed he'd bolted up the stairs. A string of profanities issued next from the black-moustached stranger, and Luna tsked. Such a temper. She drew her wand and whispered 'Dormien Profondis'. The man yawned and then settled on the welcome mat for a morning nap.

Luna dropped out of her perch and flew to a second-storey window. She wedged it open and was about to crawl through when something like a very warm gust of wind swept her back. She spiraled until she gained relative control of the broom and waited patiently for her head to do the same. When the dizziness had ceased, she wobbled her way through the window. There were sounds of pain coming from the next landing. At the top of the next flight of stairs she found Neville being subdued by a very distressed-looking Crookshanks. Cooing, she set her broom aside, plucked his claws out of Neville's skin, and scooped the very orange feline into her arms. She looked down at Neville.

'I brought you your jumper.'

8

Harry willed his hand to move faster: the air felt like treacle before it and his muscles were straining with the tension. The man opposite him smiled maddeningly and held up one finger.

'I'll be back in a tick.'

Then he stood and sashayed through a pink beaded curtain that Harry would have bet his broomstick hadn't been there before. The beads swung, and he caught a glimpse of Ginny yelling and being placated by a woman with long purple hair before the curtain fell back into place. Curiously enough, Harry couldn't hear a thing she said.

Not a moment later, the beads were brushed aside and the man stepped back. 'Sorry about that luv, now where were we?'

Harry arms suddenly gained speed where it was still suspended oddly in the air. He tried to ask about Ginny and the curtain, but the words wouldn't come. Instead he felt the cool cards of victory beneath his palm and gave voice to his triumph.

'Slap!'

From the depths of the gaudy pink handbag, an alarm sounded.

8

Ginny awoke to the sound of a door opening. She was shivering violently. She sat up on the bed and blinked drowsily at the intruder. It was Dominic.

'Oh, it's you.' Ginny winced. Her headache was back, and it throbbed in vicious opposition to her now vertical position.

Dominic looked up as he closed the door behind him. 'You're awake?' he sounded surprised.

'Apparently.' She held up a hand to her head. 'I wish I wasn't. Do you find it cold in here?'

'Um, no.' Dominic frowned and crossed the room to Ginny's bed. He laid a hand against her forehead. 'You're not too warm. Why don't you put on a sweater?'

Ginny was about to nod but stopped herself. That would have been a bad idea. She took a few deep breaths and stood. Shuffling the few steps to the end of the bed, she sat down abruptly on the floor.

'Ginny?' Dominic said, concerned.

'I'm okay. Just a bit dizzy.' Ginny said, gritting her teeth and lifting the lid of her trunk. Dominic reached out to hold it in place.

'Thanks.' She said, rooting around in its untidiness. She caught sight of a periwinkle sleeve and pulled. With only a little resistance, the rest of the jumper landed on her lap, alongside the silver box her dad had given her.

Dominic closed the lid and leaned down. 'Is that a laptop?' His fingers reached for the silver box. She handed it to him.

Something fizzed and crackled. She jumped, grabbing her hand away. 'Ow!'

Dominic winced. 'Oops. Sorry." She was disoriented, but not so much that she didn't notice his blush. "Are you hurt?'

Ginny shook her head, confused about his reaction. 'No, just a little surprised, I think. What happened?'

'Um, something must have shorted out.' He looked away. 'We'll show it to Pascale after supper. It's, er, ready.'

'Right,' Ginny said, feeling unnerved.

'Here.' Dominic offered her a hand up. She took it, glad to have something to hold on to. She still felt dizzy, though her head wasn't objecting as painfully as before. Steadying herself, she let go of his hand to pull the jumper over her head.

'Right,' she said again, 'let's go.'

8

Frank dropped a stitch and cursed. She was intensely frustrated and tossed her needles aside, scrubbing at her eyes with the heels of her palms. The situation was just too familiar for comfort. Sitting in a sickroom knitting, with no noise but the clacking of her needles. Maybe she should go find Crookshanks. He was always good for a snuggle.

Frank picked up her needles again and resumed her pattern. The Weasley's had gone out to visit Hermione's parents before school began. Frank had been invited, but opted to stay behind with Harry. Someone had to. And she didn't mind too much. It was probably just the uncharacteristic silence of the house that was bothering her.

There was a yowl from the hallway and Frank just about jumped out of her skin. Crookshanks tore into the room and jumped at her, his claws finding purchase in her skin.

'Ow! Crooks', stop it!' She tried in vain to remove the wailing feline. Over the racket Crookshanks was making, she heard a panicked voice calling.

'Mrs. Weasley! Ron! Hermione! George! Ron! Frank!'

Someone was running up the stairs. Crookshanks spit and launched himself at the open door. There was a yell of pain from the hall, and the sound of a body hitting the floor.

The only warning she had was a slight prickling of the hairs on the back of her neck. The air shimmered, and a pulse of energy swept over her, making her dizzy and light-headed. She turned around to see that Harry, who had been sleeping soundly only moments before, was awake. Or, at least, his eyes were open. Unfortunately his pupils were absent, leaving his eyes vacant, yet illuminated by a queer and familiar white light.

Oh shit. Frank thought. Shit shit _shit_! She stumbled the few steps to his bed, and gathered her wits. This had to be done right.

Sparks danced across Harry's features and alighted on the tips of his hair. She sent a mental apology to Mrs. Weasley and hoped the sheets weren't being singed. Frank climbed on to the bed, unceremoniously lifting one leg to straddle Harry's torso. Putting both her hands on his chest, and winding threads around his now-glowing kernel, she waited for the next pulse.

She felt it building, wild and out of control. Like a tidal wave that started small and deep, it was a natural repercussion, which made it all the more deadly. Frank pushed back, channeling her own current through strings of connection between her and Harry.

She held it in check, using every iota of concentration she possessed. It desperately wanted to be free. It spread out, searching for a break in her defense. There was none. Then, like all energy, potential or otherwise, it took the only route available.

Its retreat was even more enraged than its approach, and Frank shivered at the enormity of it. She waited, until she felt it dissipate into nothingness, absorbing back into Harry.

He blinked. Frank smiled when she saw his vibrant, unfocused green gaze return. She reached for his glasses and slipped them on his face.

'Frank?' he said hoarsely. 'What are you doing?'

She reached up to tousle his hair, feeling immensely relieved. 'Welcome back.'

Harry took in his surroundings then looked quizzically at Frank. 'Why are you sitting on me?'

'What? I—oh.' She slipped back onto the floor and picked up her knitting. 'You know,' she said, gesticulating with her needles, 'you've got a lot of explaining to do.'

There was a brief knock on the door, and it opened. Frank whirled around, her needles extended threateningly. In the doorway were Neville, looking pale and disheveled, and Luna, who was carrying a calm and purring Crookshanks and seemed very pleased with herself.

'Good morning Harry,' she said brightly. 'You're looking more awake than you've been recently.'

Neville looked around nervously. 'We've got to get out of here! There's a man outside who I'd bet my wand is a Death Eater. I got him past the outer wards and I don't know how long it'll be before he breaks through!'

Luna quirked an eyebrow. 'Did he have a moustache?' she asked curiously.

'Yes, why—that's not important! Frank, do you think Harry's well enough to travel by Floo?'

Frank slowly shook her head. 'I'd doubt it. I doubt he can even stand up. Harry?' She directed a query in Harry's direction.

'And an angry mouth?' Luna said, but Neville was still talking.

'Is there another way out? Portkey or something?'

Frank thought about it and was about to shake her head once more when she remembered their outing to Diagon Alley a few days before.

'Yes!' She dashed out into the hall and into Ginny's room. She fumbling about in the pocket of the shorts she'd been wearing that day, and emerging with two small paperclip-shaped successes.

When she returned, Luna was juggling Crookshanks and her broom, trying to make one of them stay still. Neville reached out and relieved her of her broom. He looked slightly wary of the cat.

'Have we got everything?' Frank asked, ushering Neville and Luna to Harry's bed. 'Harry, where are your glasses? Wand?'

He held up both, looking apprehensive.

'Everyone, grab hold of me. We're going to Hogwarts.'

Feeling both a little excited and a little apprehensive about her first trip to what was to be her new school, she slipped the paperclips together, and felt a jolt in her abdomen. Fighting the urge to lose the undigested remainder of her breakfast, Frank held tightly to Harry. When she felt solid stone beneath her feet she absorbed the shock, taking most of his weight.

'Euf.'

Neville let go her arm, and staggered. Luna looked collected and serene, as though portkeying was something she did as regularly as, say, waking up each morning. Crookshanks blinked temperamentally from where she clutched him to her chest. Her other hand held on to Neville's, who was looking a little green.

'I _hate _portkeying' he said with feeling. "Once in Dumbledore's office is enough for one week. I didn't want to repeat the experience.'

'Here, here,' Harry moaned from his position on Frank's arm.

Frank looked around. Unlike Neville, Ron, and Hermione, she and Harry hadn't actually needed to use their portkey on the day of the Diagon Alley Disaster. It was a good thing, she supposed, otherwise, they might still be stuck in the Burrow.

'Hello?' she called, as she helped Harry into a chair. 'Mr. Dumbledore?'

There was a trill, and a red and orange plumed bird flew down from the rafters, through the sunlight coming through the office's many windows. He looked a little the worse for wear, his colourful feathers drooping, but perched nonetheless on the arm of Harry's chair, and looked at Frank, quirking his head.

'Hullo Fawkes,' Harry mumbled sleepily. 'It's really good to see you.'

Fawkes inclined his head at Harry's greeting, and began to sing a soft lullaby. Phoenix song, Frank thought in wonderment. Never had she heard anything so lovely. She yawned in amusement when she saw Harry's head droop and his light snoring began to rise beneath the melody. Fawkes trailed off, then flew back to his perch beside the Headmaster's desk.

'Good morning, Professor.' Luna spoke up in the silence.

Frank turned, and was startled to find that she hadn't heard Dumbledore come in.

'It is, rather, isn't it?' The old headmaster agreed.

'Oh, yes,' Luna went on, 'a little on the chilly side, but the sun is as persistent as ever.'

Dumbledore smiled. 'Certainly, Miss Lovegood. I must admit, however, that I am a little surprised to see you all here. I wasn't expecting you, so you must excuse me if I don't offer you a lemon drop? I'm fresh out.'

Frank found that despite his easy words, he was looking sharply at her.

'That's quite all right. We've come because there was a very distasteful man who tried to break through the wards at the Burrow.' Luna regarded Dumbledore curiously.

'Was there?' Dumbledore frowned. 'How did he plan to do that?'

'I—uh,' Neville's voice cracked, 'I brought him, sir. But only past the outside wards. Not into the house.' He looked at his shoes, his ears red.

'And where is he now?' Dumbledore mused, glancing from Neville to Frank.

Luna spoke up again. 'Sleeping, I should think. On the welcome mat, most likely, though if he is prone to somnambulation I would check the flowerbed.'

All awake occupants in the room turned to look at her. Dumbledore seemed as though he was trying not to laugh, his eyes twinkling merrily. Neville looked flabbergasted.

'Why didn't you say anything before?'

'I did try to mention it, but you were a little preoccupied with the imminent danger. I didn't want to distract you.' She blinked owlishly at Neville and smiled widely.

Behind the headmaster, Fawkes burst into flame and disappeared.

'Since he is so conveniently incapacitated--all thanks to Miss Lovegood--I suppose it would be prudent to collect him.' Dumbledore glanced at Harry and strode to the fireplace, throwing in a pinch of powder and calling for Madame Pomfrey.

'When did Mr. Potter re-awaken?' he asked, looking over his spectacles at the students.

'Just now,' Frank said, avoiding his eyes and looking instead at the sleeping boy. 'Sir,' she added for good measure.

Dumbledore was unable to reply as Madame Pomfrey strode through the door, bringing with her a sense of urgency and business.

'Goodness gracious! What is that boy doing out of bed?!' She conjured a stretcher and levitated Harry to lie horizontally. 'Did I not specifically prescribe at least a week of bed-rest? Portkeying several hundred miles after the kind of exhaustion he's suffered is not a recommended activity after a week in a coma! Albus--' Dumbledore winced slightly at her shrill address 'I need to know exactly what's happened in the last twenty-four hours, and another batch of Vitalixir from Severus.' She stood, hawk-like, beside the stretcher as Dumbledore smiled placatingly.

'Of course, Poppy. Miss Brooks, if you would follow the Matron to the Hospital Wing; Mr. Longbottom and Miss Lovegood, please go retrieve Professor Snape, I believe him to be in the greenhouses.'

8

When at last his office was empty, Albus Dumbledore settled into his chair with a bemused sigh. Miss Lovegood was as innovative as her mother, it appeared. How delightful. That Death Eaters had attempted to attack Harry again, however, was worrying.

There was still a link of some kind between Harry and Voldemort, and there was no way of knowing where Harry's mind may have been since the attack on Diagon Alley. Occlumency training had failed and now the Headmaster's thoughts began to flirt with an alternative. A sneaky alternative. A slightly Slytherin grin crossed his face. Could it work? Who else knew Harry was awake? No one besides himself, three students, a nurse, and a potions master. The Weasley's were at the Granger's and most of the professors away for the summer. It just might work.

He strode once more to the fireplace, calling this time, 'Nicholas Flamel.'

8

_A/N: Well, I hadn't anticipated uploading this chapter quite as quickly, but I received two absolutely fantabulous reviews on my last chapter. Thank-you both, so much. That last review was so nice, actually, that immediately upon receiving it I set about touching up this chapter for publication. I could make a habit of that, you know. _


	12. The Little Human

_Faced with the choice between changing one's mind and proving that there is no need to do so, almost everybody gets busy on the proof._

_John Kenneth Galbraith_

8

The sleeping figure in the bed stilled as it awoke. Ginny opened her eyes to an unfamiliar room with an unfamiliar smell. It was the smell that was most disconcerting. What she wouldn't give to smell the smell of the Burrow, or of her mother's apron - though there was indeed very little difference. This room smelled slightly stale and musty, not unusual for a rarely-used room, but not a scent to hasten one back into slumber.

So she kicked off the covers and padded barefoot across the hardwood and out her door, cautious of squeaky boards and other sleepless guests. Dinner had been good, and conversation afterwards sufficiently awkward that she'd made a hasty retreat to her room. Fifteen minutes with her fourth-year History of Magic textbook had achieved the desired state of drowsiness, and she'd been fast asleep until, apparently, her circadian rhythm called a halt to the proceedings when it decided - what with that two naps and an early bedtime - that enough was enough.

Trailing her hand along the wall, Ginny passed two doors before reaching the staircase to the fourth floor - or possibly the attic. Having not explored that part of the house, and using the pale glow of moonlight to guide her, she walked stealthily up the steps, coming to a ceiling trap door - not unlike the one leading the Frank's room back at the Inglenook. Why couldn't she have had a staircase? Silently cursing ladders and appreciating the reliability of stairs, Ginny found the knob and pushed up the door.

To her surprise she was not in an attic but on the roof. Where they were not obscured by remnants of cloud, the stars were winking mockingly at her as if they'd long since been privy to this particular secret. Lowering the door quietly, Ginny stood to observe her surroundings. It was unmistakably a widow's walk. White-painted cast iron fence laced around a flattened area of the gabled roof. In the centre stood a fierce red-brick chimney: rectangular and as long as both of Ginny's arms spread at her sides. From this elevated position, Ginny imagined it would be easy to see the curve of the horizon on such a flat plain. By what little light there had been in the day time she had seen that the house, though surrounded by a copse of deciduous trees - a veritable forest by prairie standards - was closed in for miles around by a patchwork of fields.

She took a deep breath. The air up here was decidedly better. It was almost a rain-smell, but mixed in with the smell of dry dirt soaking up recent moisture. It was a scent to drive all thoughts of drowsiness from her mind and sharpen her senses. She closed her eyes, inhaled again, and let it out, savouring the freshness and letting it tingle through her extremities. Opening her eyes again, Ginny almost cried out. She was caught in a web that criss-crossed as far as the eye could see. Trails of white light traced a grid-like pattern over her body, through the air in front of her, around the chimney, over the eaves, and out into the darkness. Except it wasn't darkness any more. Every object was outlined by the web - equally ensnared - and Ginny found that she could easily identify the next farmhouse, though she knew it to be miles away. A heady sense of vertigo accompanied this realization.

What strange spell was this? Ginny moved her hand to brush the tendrils that had escaped her plait off her face and the web rippled slightly, shifting to accommodate the movement. So, not trapped then. More like she was incorporated in a matrix that would have existed were she present or not.

There was, abruptly, another shift in the web. Her eyes darted quickly to where she could see the knob turning on the trap door. The lines flowed around the motion, realigning themselves briefly as the knob stilled and then rippling again when the door was pushed outwards. Ginny, surprised by other signs of life and unnerved by her recent entrapment, acted instinctively by pulling her arms toward her chest and darting to the chimney, where she crouched against the side furthest from the door. Willing herself invisible she pressed her back into the bricks, trying to still her rapid breathing.

Frowning, she wondered both at her own jumpiness and at her immediate desire to hide. It wasn't as if someone had told her she shouldn't be on the roof, or anywhere for that matter, but it was more the sentiment of being out of place that had prompted her quick action. Supper had been a cordial affair, but she felt as though she was blatantly the odd one out, and half-interested inquiries about her life from Pascale's grandmother hadn't done anything to alleviate the sensation.

In fact, if she'd stopped to take note, the feeling of otherness from the group had really only escalated to this point after the lightning storm. Less so with Dominic, but there was still a greater estrangement between them than there had been before. She'd seen the way he looked at Pascale over supper, but couldn't entirely attribute his behaviour to his obvious distraction.

The web rippled and Ginny guessed that whoever had opened the door was now on the roof. She heard a few whispered syllables and then the dull thud of the door closing.

"All right?" Came Dominic's voice, clear in the pre-dawn stillness.

"Yes, where again did Izzie and Charles say they were going?" This was a girl's voice. Pascale's, Ginny inferred.

"Eh, for snacks I think. They should be up any second."

There was a deep intake of breath and then Dom exhaled on a low hum.

"I love this: so bright, so soon after a storm. Just us."

Ginny heard another intake of breath--this one decidedly female--and blushed at the thought of what she was inadvertently listening to. She tried to focus on something else and noticed with curiosity that the beads of light seemed to be flowing in pulses along the threads of the web. The beads' point of origin was somewhere behind her chimney. In other words, Dom and Pascale.

The next thing Ginny heard was the indignation of two female voices and surmised with some alarm that they must belong to Charles and Izzie.

"Hey! Did I not specifically say that you two were not to start without us? And here Izzie and I've brought chocolat and ginger bread. Unfortunately for you it's only for those willing to wait for their friends. Tell you what Iz: you take those two slices, I'll have these, and together we can have a nice exclusive picnic."

"Fine, fine. We're sorry, right Pascale? It'll never happen again."

"Well, probably. Maybe not," Pascale added a little more honestly than her partner in crime. Although why Charles was upset not to have been waited for Ginny couldn't fathom. Unless she'd really misjudged the relationship between her new friends... which was possible, she supposed, but didn't seem likely.

"After all, it's not like we usually leave you out of the loop--"

"Except that once," interjected Pascale again, "mm, and at least once before that, but that was definitely it."

There were no words exchanged immediately, but Ginny imagined the unimpressed look Izzie was giving the offending pair, and the mock-glare that they would receive from Charles.

"All right," Izzie spoke at last. "Enough of this dilly-dallying. We'll forgive your indiscretion this time, but don't expect us to be so forgiving again. Now, the first order of business is snack, so we may as well tuck in."

There was the sound of liquid being poured followed by appreciative noises of a kind that usually accompany the experience of something particularly delicious.

"Ah. Chocolat is a fantabulous preparatory drink. Not as strong as whiskey, but infinitely more delicious. Also, I'm not sure how alcohol would affect the gradations. That might be interesting. Eh, Pascale, do you know if Gramme's got any hard liquor she'd be willing to donate to science?"

Dominic snorted at Charles' suggestion. "I think, Charlotte, that you're better to wait for Frank before you try fielding while inebriated. Four of us is bad enough, add any sort of intoxicant and we'd likely have a disaster on our hands."

"Bah. You exaggerate, Dominic."

"You've seen the webs of intoxicated spiders?" There was a pause, and then Dominic continued, "Then enough said."

"Yeah, but I wouldn't... it's totally not... you can't really compare the two, Dom."

The white threads quilting the surface of the roof and beyond suddenly pulled taught and Ginny missed whatever Dominic said in reply. Instead she felt a sympathetic tension in her own body and scooted a little farther back, pressing her back firmly against the bricks to keep as much out of the pattern as possible.

Pascale said something she didn't quite catch and then there was silence. The strings nearest to Ginny began vibrating and she felt slightly panicked, backed into a proverbial corner as she was. Then, even more alarmingly, the beads that had been shifting subtly and randomly along their respective threads started moving rapidly in her direction.

Ten or twelve of those closest to her began nudging her legs, meeting at equidistant intervals in a cluster formation. They flowed past her knees and across her chest, jostling around her like children vying for attention. They were hot, almost to the point of being painful, and Ginny, no longer delighted with or even curious about such a strange occurrence, closed her eyes and pictured her bed in the little blue room on the floor below. No longer would it be unwelcome, no matter how it smelled. She wished fervently that she were there, imagining the feeling of the covers draped heavily across her body.

She could just smell it, that slightly dusty smell underneath the scent of the goldenrod(which sometimes made her sneeze) that had been placed on the dresser. Much calmer now, Ginny shifted against the wall and the bed bounced gently. She sat bolt upright, her eyes straining in the moonlight filtering through her window.

She was in bed. The covers were weighty as they pressed her legs into the mattress. The smell of the bouquet on the bed table did tickle her nose. The room was dim and, though she turned to look all around her, there was no silvery-white web to be seen.

Ginny frowned. It had seem so real. Well, it's not like she'd never had bizarre dreams before: this one wouldn't even make it into the top five. Resisting the irrational urge to go upstairs and see if the Canadians were really having an early-morning rendez-vous on the widow's walk, Ginny lay back down and, breathing in the scent of dusty wild-flowers, drifted back to sleep.

8

The first thing Harry saw when he awoke was that he was once again in the hospital wing at Hogwarts. There was a particular pattern to the stones in the white-washed ceiling that was only too familiar - even without his glasses. It seemed like he was always put in the same bed - the one second from the corner, by the wall. As if it was sufficiently out of the way that he, being a long-term patient, would be out from underfoot. He was a little peeved about it, really. It's not like he tried to get himself burned and poisoned and blown up at regular intervals.

"You're awake," Dumbledore's voice sounded from a few feet away, and Harry pushed himself up on an elbow to see a headmaster-shaped blur of colours.

"Where are my glasses?" he croaked hoarsely, and assumed he'd been out for a while. Funny then, that he felt so refreshed. Maybe Madam Pomfrey had gotten new mattresses.

The familiar metal frames were placed in his hand. When he could see again, he looked at Dumbledore expectantly. The older man was seated on an over-sized pouf that Harry was reasonably certain had once resided in the Divination classroom. Its purple, star-studded presence was slightly off with the white hospital decor. He waited. This was the part where Dumbledore explained why he was in the hospital wing, how he'd gotten there, and what he would have to do subsequently.

"Well, my boy," and at this Harry frowned. He wasn't entirely sure that he and the Headmaster were once again on good terms. After all, at their last meeting there had been a bit of yelling and quite a few broken possessions. Not really something that warranted pet names.

"This is the second time you've been to Hogwarts in the last few days," the Headmaster continued, unperturbed, "although I suppose you won't remember the first. You were rather subdued." Harry wondered if this meant he had been unconscious. It seemed likely, given that he had no recollection of visiting Hogwarts since Sirius' death. At this thought he violently tore from his musings and focused once more on what Dumbledore was saying.

"Most recently you were returned by Miss Brooks after an incident with a Death Eater. To my knowledge you were unconscious until shortly before your departure, but, dazed as you were, you likely don't remember that either. The most important thing of all is that the Weasleys were off at the Grangers' during the infiltration and none have any idea that you've awoken. The few privy to this knowledge include myself, Professor Snape, Madam Pomfrey, Mr Longbottom, Miss Lovegood, Miss Brooks, and Miss Granger's cat - the latter of which is not likely to be telling anyone.

"At this point you have a few choices. I have promised to never again intentionally keep you in the dark, so I will give you as much information as possible. Firstly, although weakened by our encounter in the spring, Voldemort is growing stronger and is on the offensive once again. There have been several small-scale attacks this summer, building up to Diagon Alley, which may have been another attempt on your life--but was fortunately twarted. You can be sure, however, that he hasn't forgotten about you; I'm afraid that your disposal will have become something of a priority for him. Tom always hated to be outdone in anything."

"Oh, great." Harry frowned. Dumbledore was obviously trying to make up for being tight-lipped last year, but the consequences of his reticence Harry couldn't forget. He felt his frown harden and Dumbledore continued.

"I don't think that the Death Eater Mr Longbottom met yesterday was acting on orders. Voldemort would never be that negligent. No, I believe the unfortunate man had ambitions of greater status and over-reached himself." Dumbledore smiled wryly. "Hoist upon his own petard."

"It is possible that the Dark Lord will try, once again, to attack your mind, and for that reason your learning Occlumency is still vitally important, but I think that with the prophesy gone he will be more focused on destroying your person.

"Now Harry, I need to know: what do you intend to do about the prophesy? Will you ensure that it has the opportunity to come to pass? Or will you ignore it and leave the happenings of Fate to their own convolutions?"

Harry pursed his lips. "You mean am I going to fight Voldemort. To the death." He fought the urge to roll his eyes. Fate was Fate, wasn't it? Was it even possible to escape a true prophesy? "Is there another option?"

Dumbledore steepled his fingers as he considered. "There are places you could hide where even Voldemort would not be able to find you. We would fight, for a time, the Order and I, but I am old and we are few. The ministry is dragging its heels, but it's possible they could pull together a fighting force to oppose Voldemort, though I don't care to fathom the price the wizarding world would pay before he gained control. Muggle-borns and half-bloods still alive would be summarily executed. The few pure-blooded families still 'untainted' would breed themselves to extinction or magical impotence in a few generations. Within a hundred years of the beginning of Voldemort's reign, most of Wizarding Britain and a large portion of the Muggle side would be eradicated. Eventually you would die, and all hope for defeating Voldemort would die with you."

"In other words, I can hide and die, or fight and die. Happy belated birthday Harry." Harry let the bitterness into his voice. Dumbledore's ruminations had long since ceased to comfort.

Dumbledore leaned forward. "Oh heavens, no! Harry, really. Do you honestly think I would encourage you to face Voldemort if I didn't think you stood a strong chance of winning?"

Harry raised his eyebrows. "I don't see how. I was totally helpless the last time. If you hadn't come when you did I could have been Tom Junior right now. I'm just not strong enough. I've met Voldemort so many times, and eventually my luck is going to run out."

"Yes, that is true. But you've hardly reached the ceiling of your magical potential, Harry. Given this, I believe it would be prudent for you to receive training in skills other than Occlumency. Skills in Combat, spell-casting and the like. It seems naive for you to try to maintain a normal student's learning curve when your need is much more urgent. Would you accept a set of alternative lessons to better prepare you for your confrontation with Voldemort?"

Harry gave a slight snort. For all that Dumbledore appeared to be giving him a choice, he could see that the decision had clearly already been made. If he ignored the prophesy, Voldemort would bring the fight to him, and he would die. If he hid, Voldemort would likely find him anyway, and he would die. If he trained hard, and reached further for his 'ceiling', or whatever Dumbledore had called it, then he would _maybe_ not die. But he probably would, and if he was going to die, he might as well give the best of whatever fight was in him. It would be humiliating to die unprepared, asleep or something. But all he said was, "Yeah, that'd probably be a good idea."

"However, you ought to be able to challenge Voldemort on your own terms, and I can't guarantee you absolute safety if you stay at Hogwarts. The safest place in Britain it may be, but it is not infallible." Dumbledore gazed seriously at Harry over his spectacles.

"But Professor," Harry interjected, "what if I weren't in Britain? What if I were in another country all together?"

The headmaster smiled indulgently. "Then, Harry, I believe he would look for you, first at Hogwarts, then in England, then to the other continents. You've been quite the thorn in his side over the years, and he's not likely to forget it. If, however, he didn't know you to be gone, then I would imagine you'd be quite safe elsewhere."

"But it's not like you can copy me and send the real one off somewhere else. You can't get someone to look like me with with polyjuice either; that would only transfer the risk from me to them."

"That's true," Dumbledore acceded.

"Then what other options are there? It's a shame we can't just kill me off for a little while - just until Tom loses interest. I imagine people stop hunting you when you're already dead," Harry noted sarcastically.

Dumbledore's smile grew even wider, and the twinkle in his eye hardened. "Actually, Harry, that is exactly what I intend to do."

8

Ginny was, despite her unusual sleeping patterns the previous night, wide awake the next morning. Drawing the curtains, she worked the latch of her window until it relented and pushed it open to reveal a perfectly sunny day with not a cloud in the sky. Accompanied by bird song, she donned a skirt and t-shirt after slathering herself generously in sun potion, and shook the braid out of her hair as she climbed down the stairs.

Her hair was getting awfully long. It hadn't had a trim since she'd been struck by lightning more than a month ago, and that had only been to remove the slightly charred ends. It now reached below her shoulder blades and often presented a hazard when in close proximity with doors, bushes, and puddings. Combing out the few tangles with her fingers, Ginny, armed with the tie from her plait, scooped her wavy tresses into a low bun and secured it as best she could.

The house was silent as she reached the bottom landing and, seeing no one about, she ventured outside into the sunlight. Sitting on the porch with a cup of coffee and a novel was Uncle Larry.

He looked up as she shut the screen behind her and smiled, inclining his head slightly.

"'Morning," she quipped, and immediately regretted breaking that total silence of a house of sleeping in early morning. The birds trilled on, oblivious.

He nodded again, and she returned the gesture, feeling it more appropriate. He returned to his book.

Stepping off the porch, Ginny followed the stone walkway widdershins about the house. Pascale's grandmother had a lovely garden. Ginny didn't recognize all the plants, but noted that very few of them were overtly magical. Just prior to reaching the back door of the house Ginny found a vegetable patch, and beside it, growing against the house, a row of raspberry canes. Unable to help herself, she skipped over the lettuces and plucked a few heavy purple berries.

As she stood there, savouring their sweet tartness, her eyes traveled of their own volition up the side of the house to the roof and, consequently, the widow's walk. Last night had seemed so real. The curious conversation of the Canadians, the texture of the chimney, the spread of the web and its subsequent heat. It was a decidedly strange turn for her dreams to take, when they had once again, of late, been featuring a certain bespectacled acquaintance of hers.

Before she could dwell on that particular fact, the window directly in her line of vision was flung open and a different black-haired boy leaned out, calling her name into the morning stillness.

"Good morning Dominic," she called back, feeling only slightly foolish for making so much noise. She had company at it, now. "Would you like to come exploring with me? Or, show me, perhaps, since you've probably seen it all before?

He assented and a few minutes later came loping around the side of the house with an easy grin on his face.

"You're up bright and early this morning - especially for someone who usually sleeps until noon," he commented rather impudently, "I was even starting to think after all that napping you did yesterday that we'd be able to nickname you 'Dormouse'. Alas, you deprive me of the pleasure."

"Oh, you're terribly hard done by. And I never sleep 'til noon. Eleven, tops. Now stop whinging and show me how large the yard is."

Dominic looked pensive and gestured expansively. "Well, pretty much everything you can see. Gramme owns the house, this little fenced in area, and the surrounding copses as well as a three fields of flax and one of sunflowers to the east of the property. But c'mon, we'll walk down the road and you can see for yourself."

But when they reached the porch again, Pascale was waiting to tell them breakfast was ready. She was even more radiant in the sunlight, and Dominic was instantly diverted. She didn't begrudge them, exactly, but Ginny couldn't help but feel at once, slightly embarrassed for her dream the previous night as well as wistful that any boy should ever look at her the way Dom looked at Pascale.

When they entered the kitchen shortly thereafter, Izzie and Uncle Larry were already seated at the table and there was a delicious, spicy aroma filling the room. She accepted a mug of tea from Charles and sat across from Uncle Larry. Ginny reached to take a slice of the loaf from the centre of the table, but it was only as she bit into it that she realized they were having ginger bread.

She inhaled in surprise, and, of course, got the morsel she'd been chewing lodged in her throat. A bit of spluttering and a few mouthfuls of tea were required to compose herself.

"You know, it is a good thing I made an extra loaf last night. I wasn't expecting quite so much to be gone this morning. I hope you liked it." Gramme had been speaking to Uncle Larry, but at these last words turned to look pointedly at her grand-daughter.

Ginny felt her eyes go wide. No. There was no reason to think that it was anything more than a coincidence that it was ginger bread for breakfast when she'd dreamt about the stuff the night before. At most the smell of the stuff baking had worked it's way into her dream. That the teenagers may have had a late-night snack without her stung a little, but there was little reason to think they'd had their snack on the roof. And she hadn't left her bed, so therefore couldn't have been present.

Even as she was rationalising it to herself, Gramme asked, "You n'as laisse pas the plate on the Walk again, eh Pascale? Tu sais que je deteste ascendre tous les stairs, just to bring down tes vaisselles."

Ginny's brain stumbled over its own rationalisations and stuttered. Maybe she'd heard them go past her room. Maybe that had triggered the dream.

"Eh, pas beaucoup. Peut-être juste the thermos of chocolat."

She waited, but could supply herself with no more excuses. Well that was weird. Was it possible to simply accept it as one of those scary coincidences? If the Canadians had really been up there, then had she as well? Or had she been experiencing some bizarre form of divination? What was that called, when you could see what was happening in the present... scrying? It was as Ginny tried to recall if scrying required a mirror that she noticed the silence.

She broke from her thoughts and looked around. Every eye in the room was focused on her with varying degrees of interest and amusement. The culmination of both of these expressions was found on Charles, who looked exultant.

"What is it?" Ginny demanded, shaking her head in question.

There was a blur of blue at her shoulder, and Ginny spun to see what it was. The colour moved with her and into her face at the sudden movement. She grabbed a fistful of it and held it before her eyes. It was her hair.

"What!?" she ejaculated, her eyes flying back to Charles' expression of smug delight. "Charles, what have you done to my hair?!"

The other girl cackled, and there were a few chuckles from around the table.

"It's a very handsome colour on you," Gramme tried to interject brightly. Uncle Larry agreed quickly.

Ginny pushed back her chair and dashed into the entrance hall, where a mirror hung above the boot rack. Her hair was, from root to tip, a striking shade of turquoise. She saw, partly with relief and partly with dismay, that her eyebrows and eyelashes matched her new coloration. The only thing worse than blue hair and blue eyebrows was blue hair and red eyebrows. Said eyebrows pulled into a V. Why had Charles pranked her? It was, she had to admit, a reasonably good prank, but she didn't feel nearly intimate enough with the girl to make something like this seem good-natured instead of just awkward. How was she supposed to react? Her frown deepened. She'd have to act like this was simply another of Fred and George's antics. Goodness knows she'd been pranked enough times, maybe with Charles she could fake just the right level of insult. At least until she could match it with affect. She took a deep breath, composed herself, and walked back into the dining room, seating herself demurely.

"All right, Charlotte. The opening move is yours, but believe me when I say that you will rue the day you pranked the only sister of Fred and George Weasley. It won't be today, it may not even be this week, but you will be repaid in full for your overly hasty amusement. Revenge is sweet."

And she met the other girl's eyes challengingly, before lowering them to take another bite of gingerbread and feeling generally confused.

8

When Neville returned from Greenhouse Four that evening, where he'd been busy potting Clary Sage and Hexing Nettles, he decided to stop by the Hospital Wing and see how Harry was getting along. It had been a turbulent couple of weeks, these last two, but they had afforded him a lot of time for introspection. He wanted to talk to Harry as soon as possible about restarting the DA.

He was done being the timid, useless boy who let his Grandmother take a Killing Curse. Neville wanted to be strong--as strong as his parents, who had resisted the Cruciatus for hours to protect their infant son. He wanted to protect the people he loved, too, and found himself eager for the pain and sweat that might be necessary before he would be able to do so.

Remembering her reaction when he'd stopped by to visit Harry yesterday, Neville stopped at the loo that bordered the Great Hall. He scrubbed his hands until they were pink and smarting; Madam Pomfrey wouldn't be able to refuse him again on that count.

As he pushed through the swinging double doors to the infirmary, he found Harry's bed already attended by the Matron, Dumbledore, and another, very elderly, man.

"There's nothing more I can do, Headmaster. We'll just have to wait and see how it takes," Madam Pomfrey was saying.

"Fascinating," the old man spoke softly, and Neville's ears strained to hear what he was saying, though he approached slowly, respectful of the adults. "Albus, I never thought I'd have the opportunity to see something like this. Or to bring theory into such stark realization. You have my thanks."

"Nonsense, my friend, it is I who should be thanking you; I know you did everything you could for him. Now, please give Eleanor my best, and get some good sleep tonight; I would not want you to exhaust yourself." Dumbledore took the frail wizard by the arm, and helped him over to the fireplace. A moment and a flash of floo later, the Headmaster turned to Neville.

"Good evening, Mr Longbottom. Have you come to see Harry?"

Neville opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the Matron.

"Mr Potter is not receiving visitors at the moment; his condition has taken a decided turn, and he needs some peace."

"Now, Poppy," Dumbledore began, "Harry is entirely unconscious, visitors will do him little harm." He addressed Neville again. "Unfortunately, Mr Longbottom, his sleep has regressed into a coma, once again, and we are unable to make a prediction of when he will awake, but if you would like to sit with him a while, healing thoughts can do no harm."

Madam Pomfrey made a dissatisfied noise and stalked away, a few strands of steely grey hair flicking out of her bun, mumbling about "my infirmary".

Neville frowned. "Excuse me, sir. What do you mean he's again in a coma? How did that happen? I thought he was getting better."

Dumbledore ruffled his moustache, and his eyes looked rather sad. "As did we all, my boy, but the human mind is a very delicate thing. Perhaps Harry's was simply unprepared to face the world at this time. He has been under a regrettable amount of stress--much of it, to my shame, of my own making. Though, as Poppy says, perhaps all he needs is a little peace. We can but wish him well. Maybe he will rest a little easier knowing, even subconsciously, that his friends will be waiting for him when he returns."

Neville frowned, but took a place at Harry's bedside. He hoped that would be soon, because hospitals had never been, to him, the most comforting places.

8

_A/N: Another installment in the story that has been haunting my waking moments as I fiddled, this week, with the next ten or so chapters. So if you're keen for another chapter, I'm keen for some more reviews. :)_


	13. The Last Laugh is Reserved for Death

_We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over. So in a series of acts of kindness there is, at last, one which makes the heart run over. _

_James Boswell_

8

Ginny spent the rest of that morning walking the length of the property by herself, exploring the trees and discovering muddy ponds and hazelnut bushes. Dominic had pleaded off guide duty and followed Pascale upstairs to who knew what purpose. The hazelnuts were ripe for picking, but Ginny gave up after half an hour or so of getting the pricklies stuck in her thumbs. Her hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail as she was earnestly trying to forget about its unfortunate hue, though, from what she had gleaned from Charles, the colour was there to stay and she may as well get used to it. The afternoon was spent with Dom and Pascale trying to figure out how to work her MAN. As Dominic had warned her, Pascale had first had a fair bit of tinkering to do, though Ginny thought it looked the same afterwards as it had prior to Pascale's intervention and thus couldn't see the point. She was assured that she would find the changes helpful, but since she still had trouble turning the blasted thing on, she couldn't immediately agree to this assessment.

Throughout Pascale's surgery, Ginny kept catching Dominic looking at her strangely, almost as if she were also being assessed. It made her uncomfortable, especially since she had considered them to be on friendly terms and felt much more comfortable around him than she did around Izzie or Charles. The others were her friends, she supposed, but it seemed that theirs was more of a convenient friendship than one of permanence or significance. There was an air of cordiality in her interactions with the two girls which belied their perpetual cheerfulness. And Pascale was a mystery. They had yet to hold a conversation together, and though the blond girl had spent more than an hour lecturing her in technical jargon, Ginny would hardly even call them introduced. The feeling of alienation she felt around Izzie and Charles was magnified around Pascale to the point that she was under the impression that the other girl wasn't even interested in being properly introduced.

Two days passed like this, with her tentatively being included in the other teenagers' plans - more as an afterthought than through any real desire for her company. They traipsed through the trees and played gin rummy and lounged on the porch, but she couldn't shake the feeling - while sitting, talking, laughing - that she was in some way different and excluded from the group. She finally confronted Dominic about it on the fourth day of her stay. Cornering him in his room after supper she closed his door behind her and put her hands on her hips, to incarcerating and--she hoped--intimidating effect.

He frowned at her in what she thought was a guilty manner. "What?" Damn him and his innocent-sounding questions.

"Don't _what_ me Dominic Roth. I want to know what's going on. Something's up with Izzie and Charles and you've been looking at me strangely all week!"

"Strangely?" His eyebrows rose. "Ginny, you have blue hair. It does take a bit of getting used to."

Bugger. He would have a rational explanation for his behaviour. "Well, what about Izzie and Charles - or even Pascale for that matter?" she countered.

"Eh, well going from your well-worded and precise description of their behavior, I'd say Charles is probably anticipating the moment you'll exact your revenge, Izzie concerned because when Charles pulls stunts like this, they usually come in sequence and she doesn't want to be stuck speaking Japanese when school starts, and I can only imagine that Pascale feels a little out of place talking to you when you've known the rest of us so much longer. Also, she doesn't relate to regular people very well. Especially those she's only known for a few days. It's nothing personal, I promise."

Again with the reason. She felt her righteous frustration slip away like air from a punctured balloon. She slunk past him and sunk onto his bed, laying perpendicular across it. "It's just - now don't laugh - it feels like they're trying to keep me at arm's length. Like they don't want to be friends. It doesn't help that you all go off and do things without me, but even worse when you invite me along and I still feel left out. I know you've all been great friends for years now, and I don't want to force my company on you, but I feel a bit like the ugly duckling."

Dominic pressed his lips together and looked slightly cross, but when he spoke his voice was gentle. "Ginny, you're a great person and I love having you around. I would never want to exclude you from anything. I'm sorry you've been down lately, and I'm even sorrier that I haven't noticed. Do you want me to talk to the girls?"

Ginny shook her head. "No, I don't want it to seem like I'm whinging. They've been friends for much longer than I've been around. I was just a bit confused. Never mind." She looked down.

"Hey, don't blush, there's no need to be embarrassed." He tentatively reached forward and pulled her up and into an only slightly awkward hug.

She felt her cheeks heat even more. Her anger had totally faded and she was feeling greatly silly. "Right, just let me know when your next midnight rendezvous takes place, okay? I make a mean shortbread." She felt his hand still where it had been patting her back.

He pulled back and stared at her. "Midnight rendezvous'?"

Oops. That had been her... dream. She refused to meet his eyes. "Uh, never mind." Thinking quickly she added, "It was just something Gramme said."

He smiled then, and his eyes flicked to the doorway. He stepped out of their loose embrace and the door opened as Pascale dashed in.

"Dominic, j'ai juste trouve une meilleur solution to the probleme de la regulation of Gray's Algorithm, je--" She stopped abruptly and looked questioningly at Dominic. "Qu'est-ce qui ce passe?"

Dominic glanced back at Ginny and frowned. "Ginny est venu me demander un couple de questions. Je t'expliquerais plus tard. We were just about to start a game of slap, but if you're interested we could get Scrabble going instead..."

Although Dominic's promise had been unspoken, Ginny felt much more comfortable playing Scrabble that evening than she had doing anything with the Canadians in the past few days. She and Dom partnered as did Izzie, Charles, and Pascale while Gramme and Uncle Larry won indisputably with the word _equivocate_. It wasn't perfect comfort, mind, but she went to bed feeling more optimistic than she had in days.

8

Albus sighed. Harry had refused the Black money left to him in Sirius' will, an event which he had expected. He had also anticipated the boy allowing the Order to continue its residence in Grimmauld Place. At Harry's request Kreacher and Buckbeak "Witherwings" the Hippogriff now both resided at Hogwarts, decisions which Albus had encouraged. What he hadn't been counting on was Harry's insistence that the money be donated to the school to finance an official Defense Association to replace Dumbledore's Army. It was an inspired idea, granted, but the Headmaster could already feel the headache he would get from trying to swing it past the board of governors who were, undoubtedly, working primarily for the interests of the Ministry, which were, undoubtedly, not favorable.

And then there was, of course, the question of the new Minister of Magic. Fudge had been ousted, and elections were well underway. Former Head of the Auror office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Rufus Scrimgeour, was leading the polls, though followed closely by Amelia Bones. He was hopeful that the Wizarding World had learned from Fudge's ineptitude, and that Amelia, strong, capable, and a long-time sympathizer of the Order would be elected, but despite carefully chosen words in carefully chosen ears, it wasn't up to him to decide.

He put down his quill and rose, pausing to pat a newly-hatched Fawkes on his sparsely-feathered head before crossing the room to pluck a pair of glasses from where they balanced on a silver contraption that made periodic ticking noises. They were, in fact, the very pair that Harry Potter had been wearing since childhood, though he had no need for them now. With careful movements, Albus adjusted a few of the instrument's moving parts, then replaced the glasses.

It wouldn't be long before Voldemort made his move, a decision that would likely be the deciding factor in victory for the Light. Diagon Alley had been a threat: a well-calculated message from a cunning man. Wizards who, a couple months previously, were adamantly denying Voldemort's return, now didn't dare to claim ignorance. Very few people didn't know someone, or know someone who knew someone who'd been in the Alley on the day of the Disaster. That it had been a day that many students had been present doing their school shopping only compounded the gravity. The isolated attacks that sensationalized the Prophet were brought into sharp realization as wizardfolk were thrust jarringly back to the harsh reality of the first war, twenty years ago.

Curfews had quickly been placed on towns and villages that were entirely or primarily magical, Aurors and members of the magical law enforcement were now stationed around the clock at the Wizarding centres in Britain, including a squad monitoring traffic through the Leaky Cauldron and another at Gringotts in Diagon Alley. The ministry had tried to place guards at Hogwarts, but Albus had been unyielding in his refusal. Things were difficult enough without a handful of hawk-eyed Aurors poking into school business.

It was all around an unpleasant situation. Voldemort had conquered the Wizarding public with fear, and all he had was a pair of glasses sitting on his shelf to remind him of the boy who was to be their salvation. He took off his own spectacles and rubbed the tiredness out of his eyes. Sitting back at his desk, he took up his quill to continue the letter that he'd turned away from in distraction. It began, "_Dearest Adelaide_".

8

Ginny's optimism lasted until she received her mother and Hermione's letters the following morning. She'd been neglecting her friend's previous letter for a few days now, but all thoughts of her brother's new relationship were driven from her mind as she learned of the Diagon Alley Disaster and Harry's ensuing coma. She was struck with homesickness as she thought of Harry's attendance at her bedside when she was unconscious, and had to suppress the irrational urge to rush back to him.

She was subdued the rest of the day, turning down Dominic at an offer of snap and Gramme at a second slice of crisp. It was evening before she felt composed enough to pen a reply.

_Mum and Hermione,_

_Thanks for letting me know. I'm glad the twins are okay and I'll try not to worry about Harry. Give my best to Neville and Luna._

_Canada's great; I've met some nice people and seen some very interesting things._

_Keep me posted if anything else happens._

_All my love,_

_Ginny_

It wasn't her best work, but she hoped it would suffice. No need to worry her family with her own insecurities about her friends. Like Dom had said, the majority of it was probably her imagination. Everything would be fine once they got into the routine of school and she no longer felt so uprooted.

8

Ron was understandably upset. He'd left the Burrow with Harry unconscious but recovering, Frank standing watch, and primarily preoccupied with meeting Hermione's parents for the first time as her boyfriend. When they'd returned, he largely unscathed and only slightly embarrassed, there were ministry officials waiting to talk with his parents, and news that Harry and Frank had had to emergency evacuate to Hogwarts. Sometime in between Harry's condition had worsened and Madame Pomfrey couldn't predict when - or even if - he would awaken.

It just didn't make sense. Harry had to be both the luckiest and unluckiest bloke alive. Lucky because he was still alive, but unlucky because of all the events he'd had to live through to make this fact surprising. That there was even a possibility that he could die in this coma gave Ron a dull ache inside.

He was too young, first off. He'd spent so much of his life with those horrible Muggles, and to be threatened by You-Know-Who... he hadn't ever really had time to be a kid. But he was also too old. He'd seen an experienced too many awful things to die without being able to experience all the wonderful ones. And he was too alive. He had, of course, imagined his best friend dying in the past, but that had always been in the heat of a fight, and he, Ron, had always been standing right there beside Harry. Not locked away in a possibly deadly sleep where he couldn't follow him, couldn't help him. _We're in this together, mate, _Ron thought angrily.

Hermione was, of course, up in arms. She was itching to start researching magical exhaustion and their resulting comas, and there was talk among the adults of sending the two of them to join Frank and Harry at the school. His girlfriend was doing everything in her power to speed up this process, wanting to have at least a few days with the library before classes started, and for once she had his full cooperation.

But something else was bothering Ron. Harry had told him about the prophesy Trelawney made about him and You-Know-Who, and Ron couldn't help thinking about how vulnerable Harry would be, unconscious for such a period of time. Hogwarts was supposed to be safe, but Sirius had got in, hadn't he? And Barty Crouch Jr.. If Harry were killed while in a coma, or died of it anyway, then He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would have free reign on the wizarding world because--if Trelawney was to be believed--only Harry could kill him. He felt the dull ache throb painfully. With Harry dead and the wizarding world sentenced for execution, what would he do? Would there be any place to hide, or would they simply be cattle lined up for slaughter? The ache intensified and Ron thrust such unpleasant thoughts aside. Harry would be fine. Madame Pomfrey had surely been wrong in the past, Harry could be up and about in a week for all he knew. It didn't make sense to dwell.

8

"I don't like it."

"Pascale, come on, we've talked about this. It's only a few more days until we get to school, and then hopefully she'll find people besides us, but right now we're all she's got. Imagine how it would feel to be all alone in a new country and have people you thought were your friends acting strange and hostile." Dominic ran his hand through his hair for the third or fourth time and look around with an imploring expression.

"I agree with Pascale. She just can't get too close. She's a nice girl; she'll find new friends." Izzie stared back with a hard expression.

Charles, her face today pale with honey-coloured ringlets cupid-bow lips pulled into a pout, said, "Well, I actually like Ginny. I still don't see why we can't make her our friend. We're careful about fielding when we're with Martin, why can't we do the same with Ginny?"

"Ay ya, we know you like Ginny. You're the one who pranked her with ridiculous blue hair! Quelle sorte d'impression is she supposed to take from that little stunt? Given how well you know her, if it were me I would have said that was un petit peu mechante."

Dominic sighed. "Pascale, assez. It's true, Charles, I think you may have over-done it a bit with that. Especially when she was already feeling isolated. That said, there's no reason we should exclude her from anything while she's here. We're being terrible hosts." He cut Izzie off before she could speak, "--Exclude her from anything besides the obvious."

Pascale, at least, looked slightly chagrined. "Ah, c'est vrai, but je n'ai pas demandé to have her visit with you. She wouldn't be here if it were up to me. On peut remercier Frank and her crazy ideas of foreign magic."

"Be that as it may, it doesn't change the fact that she's here now and feeling left out."

"Well boo hoo, Dom, but you can't say she's been totally oblivious up until now;" Izzie interjected, "she's hardly unaware of the half-conversations that happen around her--it's likely the reason for her feeling out of it--or the night we went up the Walk, though I don't know how, and she would have had to be blind and deaf not to notice _some_thing odd in the van on the way up. What if we'd been outside during the storm; how would you have explained _that_ one away, eh?"

"Dominic," Pascale added in a gentle voice, "it is simply not safe. Eventually she will have enough questions to begin putting together an answer, and if that answer is at all close to the truth..."

"But why can't we just trust her? You know I don't 'just' trust people, Pascale, and I don't think she'd say anything. We could tell her everything! Then we wouldn't have to hide it, and she could still be our friend!"

Pascale rolled her eyes. "Franchement, Charles, es-tu complètement bête? That's the silliest suggestion yet! What happened when we told Gramme about it? Elle était firstly horrifié, and then she modified her own memory until she couldn't remember what she was modifying! Isn't that kind of a clue? What we do is against all wizard law. Any cognizant government in the world would erase us, quickly and quietly, with a smile and a nod."

"But it's not like it was our choice--" Charles began, but Pascale interrupted her.

"Do you remember what happened before the night your Dad left? Or Dom and Izzie's? Or my parents? No. None of us do. Because the time before the strike is suspiciously fuzzy--like it would be after a traumatic event or a _memory wipe_. And the officials that continued to check in on us until your illness? Étrange, peut-être, but do you remember--"

"Of course I remember, Pascale!" Charles broke in angrily, her blond tresses curling tighter and turning fire-engine red, "I can _see_ the damned rune seal, as you very well know, so there is no reason to spell it out for me. But Ginny's genuine, and her magic is pure and almost familiar. I see no reason to distrust her."

"It's not worth the risk, Char," Izzie spoke gently, laying a soothing hand on her friend's shoulder.

"But she's not just a risk, Izzie! We're hurting her by being this way, and that is not acceptable. Three days. Just try for three days, then school will start and we can go our separate ways. The risk for three days is minimal. Can we all agree to that?" Dominic leaned back in his chair, arms folded, surveying his friends.

Izzie rolled her eyes, but nodded, and Pascale gave a short, "Fine."

Charles gave a snort of dissatisfaction. "Whatever. It would serve you right if she started seeing the field herself. I'm going for a run."

And she left the room, her sleek black hair flicking out behind her.

"Bizarre," commented Pascale as the door closed.

"Yeah, it's not like her to take so strongly to someone. Though you didn't have to go dredging all that up, Pascale." Izzie raised an eyebrow at the blond girl.

"Bien, you can't have thought it a good idea to go telling this English girl all about us. Really, Izzie."

"Well, no, but Charles' intuitions are usually right. I guess we'll see."

"Just remember the deal," Dominic clarified, "she is, for all intents and purposed, our friend for the next three days. Please make an effort."

"Eh ya, eh ya," Pascale rolled her eyes. "You must really like this girl, Dominic. Three days, but then it's back to just us. I don't share well."

He smiled at her, and leaned forward to whisper his response in her ear as Izzie beat a hasty exit.

8

Luna stood at the foot of the bed, watching Harry's best friends with a pensive expression on her face. Neville was down in the greenhouses helping Professor Sprout get ready for the beginning of the new term, and Frank was up in the owlery furiously at work knitting her third afghan. Everyone dealt with stress differently. Most interesting, she found, was Dumbledore, who appeared harried and tired, but also strangely smug. As though he had a secret. A special secret, she rationalised, since in all probability, he had many secrets. Tired or not, he was still Dumbledore.

Ron and Hermione, however, were looking much worse off. This was the first time they'd seen Harry since he fell back into the coma three days ago, and Ron was extremely pale, squeezing Hermione's hand as a comfort to them both, while she simply stared at their non-responsive friend with a deep crease between her eyebrows. She looked as though something about the familiar tableau - Harry lying pale and silent, his chest barely moving beneath the starched hospital linens - was wrong or out of place. It was the same look she wore when professors misquoted something she had previously read. She was entirely right, of course. The situation was more than a little suspect.

Luna would have had to be dead not to notice the wave of magic that had washed through Harry's room shortly before she arrived. She had only felt something similar once before, when her mother was killed. Only, somehow, both Harry and Frank--at the epicentre of the blast--were fine. Harry had, in fact, looked the better for it: awake with a little colour coming back into his cheeks. His aura had still been a little grey, but it was beginning to radiate its usual green. Now it was once again smoky and he lay as he had before the magical tidal wave, and neither Madam Pomfrey nor the headmaster could--or would--tell her how it had happened.

Hermione was the first to turn away, pulling Ron with her and walking briskly from the room. Ron gave Harry and Luna a last glance before they disappeared in the direction of the library. Luna was finally alone in the hospital wing.

Moving quickly as she had no idea when Madam Pomfrey would return, Luna whipped out her wand and cast a series of simple diagnostic spells. In addition to the relaxed constrictions on underage magic this summer, she was in Hogwarts, and the possibility of her spells being traced was next to none. Breathing, temperature, circulation, blood pressure: everything checked out. Physiologically he was in perfect health. Curious. Taking a small vial out of her robes she lifted Harry's arm off the bed, cast a small severing charm, and caught a trickle of blood in a hastily conjured vial before healing the cut until it was indistinguishable. Next, she pulled a couple of hairs from his head, corked them in a separate bottle, and placed both in her robe.

Affection for the boy below her stole over her, and she gently smoothed his bed-head, smiling, before exiting the room after Ron and Hermione. They all had research to do tonight.

8

Though not forgotten, Ginny's worries went temporarily on hold when Charles asked her on a walk the next morning. The day was hot and muggy, but for a while the sun was shining, and so Charles said she'd take her to the slough a few fields over. Apparently Gramme owned the land around the house for quite a few acres, and rented much of it out to farmers--who didn't mind her grandchildren and company swimming in the natural dug-outs.

As the two girls strolled down the dirt roads, Charles barefoot and swinging a sandal in each hand, they chatted about this and that, and Ginny began to wonder if maybe she _had_ been imagining the taciturn attitudes of the other teenagers.

"So what's the best part of this time of year at your home?" Charles asked, stating curiosity about what her sister might be experiencing at the moment.

Ginny thought about watching Quidditch scrimmages with the boys, of eating wild blackberries, of late suppers out on the lawn, and the years she'd spent sitting quietly on the couch in the evening, watching Harry be thoroughly trounced at chess. Or, if she were honest, ogling Harry as he was thoroughly trounced at chess. Not that she'd done it for a while, though. And really, towards the end, there, before she left, _she'd_ been the one beating Harry at chess. But she said only, "Do you have blackberries here, or just raspberries?"

Charles looked at her in confusion but answered her question all the same. "No, unfortunately, no blackberries are to be had in Saskatchewan. Too dry, maybe. But there are a couple in the foothills at school. More strawberries, though. Delicious, melt-in-your-mouth, teensy-tiny wild strawberries." She smiled at the thought. "But you haven't really answered my question... unless blackberries are your favourite part?"

"Well, maybe not. It's more a combination of things. Almost like a ripening of summer, when the days are getting shorter, but the evenings are still warm, and everything smells like it's growing. The desperation in milking out the last few days of holidays with the boys and the anticipation of starting a new year but still feeling sad to leave Mum and Dad..." She forgot that she was distracting herself from worrying about Harry and reflected that at the moment the entire Burrow household was probably in fits over their practically-adopted son's condition, but didn't know how to express such a situation, with all its nuances, to Charles.

However, the other girl just nodded and asked, "So what would Frank be doing at your house right around now?"

"Well, Frank's probably already been to Diagon Alley to buy her school things, so on a day like today? I'd bet money that Ron and the twins have cajoled her into being referee for one of their ad hoc Quidditch games." The small lie gave her a pang of homesickness despite its falsity.

"That sounds kind of idyllic, actually." Charles said, smiling. "You must have had a happy childhood."

"I guess it does, doesn't it?" Ginny admitted. "My family's not very rich, so there were certainly hard times, but I was happy. We were all happy. And I guess that's more than some can say, isn't it?" Again Harry sprang to mind, along with his accompanying set of concerns, but Charles continued.

"I'm sorry that you're not happy here."

Ginny was taken aback, surprised at the apology, and the loose segue. "Well, I'm not really unhappy," she countered, "and I'm happy at the moment."

Charles, her expression uncharacteristically serious, slowed her walk and met Ginny's gaze. "We're not really used to having another person around, and some of us are having difficulties, but we're going to give it a try. I just think you should know how much I want us to be friends."

Ginny looked away, touched by Charles' words and unsure how to respond. It was like the balloon of tension that had been inflating these last few days had suddenly lost a lot of its air. "I-- thanks, Charles. That's really nice to know."

And then Charles' grin was back, as if it had never left her face. "So, Dom tells me that you went hazelnut picking the other day. How are your thumbs?"

Ginny raised her eyebrows, but answered, "Still a little tender."

"Then you're probably not going to be very happy to hear that there's actually a spell that will husk them for you. Well, peel anything, really, but it's particularly useful for hazelnuts."

Taking her cue from Charles' once-again flippant manner, Ginny grimaced. "Yes, that would have been helpful. Also helpful," she began, intentionally stepping away from the topic of her relationship with the Canadians, "would be to know how to get rid of my blue bloody hair!"

Charles' eyes widened in surprised, then looked about shiftily. "Eh, actually, no can do. You'll have to wait it out." She quickened her pace, one arm behind her back, and the other behind her neck sheepishly. When she was a few steps ahead of Ginny she turned and said, "It _should_ revert to it's original colour, eventually."

Ginny resisted the urge to strangle Charles, if only because, with the other girl's none-too-subtle attempt to put distance between the two of them, it was clearly what she expected.

"Well, what about all that 'intention' junk you were going on about. Can't you just point your wand at my hair and _intend_ it to be red again?"

"Nope. Maybe if I'd used a spell to do it, but that was an extremely nifty potion, and you're just going to have to be patient. _Besides_, blue is just a great colour! I spent the first four years of my life with blue hair!" And she lengthened her short pixie cut into a bob and turned it blue.

"Bully for you; you can morph it away whenever you like! What _is_ your natural hair colour, anyway?"

But Charles only smirked and replied, "Purple."

Ginny, who couldn't help laughing, did so, and the two continued their banter until they reached a field of blue. Ginny was fascinated at all the colours of grain that seemed to grow here. Also at their relevance to the previous discussion. Just then, Charles turned off the road and headed straight for the prairie sea. The waves of blue flowers, almost periwinkle, parted for her, and she disappeared from the thighs down. Ginny hastened to follow.

She imagined that two legless girls seemingly floating through a vast body of flowers must look a bit odd, and half wished that there was somebody to observe the phenomenon. But there it was only her and Charles, as far as the eye could see. Which was a ways. Looking to her left she could see the windbreak that hid Gramme's house, and in all other directions were fields upon fields, all the colours of a harvest rainbow broken up only by occasional patches of trees and bushes.

After a few minutes of wading through the long stalks of grass, the two girls emerged onto a rocky plateau, and Ginny wondered where they'd all come from, since her feet had encountered none among the flax. Beyond the rocks was a short stretch of short, green meadowy grass, and then a short drop into a pond.

"Is that the slough?" she asked, being mindful of the stones, some of which were the size of her head.

"Sure is," replied Charles. "And none too soon, I'm soaked! It's too freaking hot out here."

Ginny had to concur. She hadn't wanted to complain, but there had been an unpleasant sticky spot between her shoulder blades for the last half-hour. "So, can I just jump in?"

Charles nodded. "This one's particularly nice because it's so deep. The bottom's about ten feet down. I recommend that spot there." And she pointed to a larger rock, maybe three or four feet long, that jutted out slightly from the edge.

"But this spot's okay? I mean, if I wanted to?" Ginny pointed to the ground they were standing on, a step away from the drop.

"I suppose, but with that rock there, why would you want to?"

"Well," replied Ginny, trying not to smile too evilly and give herself away, while maintaining a casual pose, "with the field and the sky and the water reflecting the sky and even my _hair_ keeping such a _lovely_ blue," and here she paused only slightly to shift her weight, then finished in a rushed breath, "it's only fair that you do too!" And with that she shoved Charles unapologetically over the side.

Charles had come up spluttering but laughing, and some time later, the two sat side by side on the large rock, both in their clothes, with Charles' being the more damp. They'd been in the position for a few minutes, neither one speaking and both enjoying the respite, since the sun had gone behind the clouds that had rolled in while they were swimming. While it was lovely, Ginny had felt a growing sense of urgency since the clouds had arrived, and was about to say something about it to Charles when the other girl said, "We should head back to Gramme's." And picked herself up.

Ginny followed suit, and dusted herself off before straightening to see which direction Charles had gone in. The other girl was standing a few paces away, but there was a strange set to her shoulders, as if they were extremely stiff.

"Hurry," Charles said, and there was a definite panicky note in her voice, "we've really got to _go_."

Confused by her tone, Ginny complied, quickening her step to match Charles'. The weather was turning out to be very strange, indeed. Even though it was darkening, and the sun was completely obfuscated, it seemed as though, out of the corner of her eye, she could see little glints of silver on the outlines of trees, rocks, or fences in the distance. Even the flax seemed a little brighter, or _shinier_, than the matte blue it had been when they arrived.

They had just crossed the small meadow when Charles muttered what sounded like a curse under her breath. Ginny turned to regard her, a question on her lips, when she felt her foot strike something larger than she'd anticipated, and the subsequent momentum as she fell. She caught sight of Charles, her arms out at her sides, her hair shimmering with that same, strange quality and a glint in her eyes, just before she felt her head crack painfully on another rock.

As she was sucked into unconsciousness, she felt hands moving her off the rocks and heard Charles' voice whisper an apology.

8

_A/N: Well, we're really getting into the guts of it now; tell me what you think?_


	14. What a Tangled Web

_There is no well-defined boundary between honesty and dishonesty. The frontiers of one blend with the outside limits of the other, and he who attempts to tread this dangerous ground may be sometimes in one domain and sometimes in the other. _

O. Henry, _Rolling Stones_, 1912

8

Frank closed the door softly behind her and sagged against the wall. She'd never been as tired in her life as she'd been these last few days. It had taken her years to get the hang of field manipulation, how was she supposed to impart the basics in less than a week? She could only hope that what she'd been able to do would be sufficient. And she hated keeping secrets. Mostly because she was bad at it. She relied heavily on the others to present an innocent front; if questioned when guilty she, herself, would only blush and twitch until the inquirer guessed the gist of whatever she was trying to hide. Not a good trait, when you're Francis Brooks. Now that she was on her own, she had, out of necessity, taken to avoiding Luna and Neville like the plague. She only saw them at meals and before bed; what little time she had to spare she spent knitting in the Owlery - which was comfortingly abandoned. But now Ron and Hermione had arrived and she would likely have a harder time hiding. She wondered briefly if Hogwarts had any secret passage-ways. Probably. She made a mental note to seek them out at the nearest opportunity.

She'd been staying in the guest rooms of Gryffindor Tower, but had promised to report to the Headmaster's office shortly to be sorted properly. With all the fuss over Harry when she'd arrived she hadn't had the opportunity, although Hermione had long-since explained the process to her. At the time she'd been momentarily delighted in its difference from Opasquia, but now was simply hoping she'd get sorted somewhere other than Gryffindor. Hermione was smart and Luna seemed rather sharp; it wouldn't be much longer before they realized that Frank knew something. Especially when they were both actively researching what had happened to Harry.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed herself on towards Dumbledore's office. She'd told him most of what had happened to Harry, but left out strategic pieces that had had her fiddling nervously with her hair. She supposed that he had guessed at least part of the rest, but so far she hadn't been accosted by any government officials and surmised, therefore, that the headmaster may not be as law-abiding or benign as he appeared.

Approaching the stone gargoyle and calling out "_Blood Pops_", Frank fidgeted with her buttons as the stairway ascended. Lying to people who could only hear what she said was one thing, lying to a conscious garment that could read her thoughts was going to be another matter entirely.

8

Severus sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Damn Minerva for flouncing off on the last day before term. Now he was stuck witnessing the sorting of the exchange student. A shoe-in for Hufflepuff. She was standing tremulously in the doorway looking fit to wet herself, and she wasn't even looking at him. He scowled and thought wistfully of the headache potion newly bottled in his lab. The girl sat with wide eyes as Albus placed the hat on her head. Honestly. One would think someone was holding her at wandpoint and threatening the Cruciatus.

His headache barked again unhappily, and he almost missed it as the girl's tension disappeared. Strange; terrified students usually only relaxed when the hat announced their intended house. If it wasn't the hat's decision she'd been bothered about, what could possibly have been worrying her? Not to mention that this Sorting was taking much longer than it ought. It was a quick decision, not a bloody tea party. It was understandable that the hat should go a bit stir crazy in Albus' office all year round, but it would be sorting the first years the following day, was it really necessary to torture him so? Then, quite suddenly, the little chit smiled. Circe, what could she possibly have to smile about? Getting one's thoughts picked apart was not supposed to be a pleasant experience. A true Legilimens would soon wipe the smile off her face, he thought dispassionately. Unless, of course, she had so few thoughts that their violation was next to unnoticeable... His train of thought was, however, halted, and he felt the irritation sizzle acidly in his throat as the hat announced, "Slytherin!"

Somewhere the gods were laughing at him. How could this wide-eyed, frizzy-haired, empty-headed _child_ be sorted into his esteemed house? A child who was, furthermore, bosom friends with Harry Potter? He forced himself to give her a stilted welcome to the house of Slytherin. It was unfortunate that the hat never changed a decision, once made. He paused, then, considering her welcome among his other Slytherins. Oh, they would eat her _alive_. Very well. The hat clearly thought she was made of stronger stuff; only time would tell. Severus felt a grin tug at the corners of his mouth at the thought but quickly quelled the impulse. It certainly wouldn't do for this student to get the wrong impression of him.

8

The drive back from Pascale's was hot, but uneventful. Five teenagers and Uncle Larry bid Gramme adieu in the late morning, and by dinnertime, they'd arrived back in Regina, sweaty, but otherwise none the worse for wear.

Crossing the threshold of the Inglenook behind the Canadians, Ginny shook her hair out of her eyes and looked up to meet the eyes of a young man standing in the entry-hall. Her throat went dry and she could practically feel her heart skip a beat. Who would have guessed the kind of power he still had over her. She quickly scanned her immediate history for any unexplainable blank periods, but could find none. Well, there'd been the whole rock incident the day before last, but surely Charles would have told her if she'd been out and murdering chickens. So what was he doing here? The Canadians clearly hadn't noticed him, and just like before, he had eyes only for her. A loud stoccatto noise reached her ears and she realized she'd dropped her trunk. She bent, automatically, to retrieve it, watching the apparition to make sure he didn't disappear. She could feel her hands trembling, but gripped the handle hard--both to still their shaking and to stop herself from reaching out to touch him.

Suddenly he smiled, and Ginny had a horribly clear memory of the last time he'd smiled at her. It had been immediately after he had placated her worries with the assurance that her life would not be in vain, no, she'd be helping rid the world of Mudbloods and Muggles. It was a valiant, righteous death. She should feel honoured. Then he'd smiled at her and cupped her cheek gently but his eyes had laughed mockingly.

She shook her head. Not any more. Tom Riddle as she'd known him was dead. Harry had killed him. She deliberately turned towards the stairs in denial of the illusion. When she heard him call for her to wait, her mind went blank. The next thing she knew she was facing him and he was introducing himself.

"...Tom..." _Tom. She knew that. Of course his name was Tom. _"..as." _Thomas_? She peered into his face. He had the same dark hair as Tom Riddle, but his was more of an auburn than a chestnut brown. His face was similarly narrow, but he had thicker eyebrows than her Tom, and slight laughter lines at the corner of his eyes. These eyes were genuine in their introduction and his smile natural. Now that she'd noticed these small differences she laughed breathlessly with relief. Not Tom. Or, rather, a different Tom. She shook his hand, and noticed that it was larger and more calloused than Tom's had been. Tom had always had silky smooth hands, as if nothing could ever mar them. His body, too, was slightly different. Tom had been rail-thin and sinewy. This bloke was a bit broader in the shoulders, narrower at the waist. But both were English, even though Thomas didn't have the perfect elocution Riddle had. She gave him her name, and the edges of his eyes crinkled attractively. Green eyes. Dark green, almost hazel. Tom's had been brown.

She felt something niggling at the back of her mind. Something about her trunk. Her brain told her that he'd asked if she wanted help with it. It couldn't hurt, the others were far ahead of her, and dinner would be soon. She accepted, and gave him her name in return, which only made his smile widen. She wondered what he thought about her original reaction to his presence and felt her cheeks redden. Still, she thought defensively, he did look an _awful_ lot like Tom. She picked up her end of the trunk and started up the stairs. Was it possibly that Voldemort had a son? She mentally sniggered at the thought and felt herself smile. That would be a riot. Talk about cliche. The boy could either join his father in darkness or rebel and fight for the light and it would still tell like a cheesy knut-a-novel paperback. Her nerves calmed at the thought, and she wondered what Harry would think about such a situation.

8

Frank sat rigidly in her seat, trying to exude the air of one who was perfectly comfortable in her surroundings. Although she didn't have an objective opinion, she would guess that she was failing miserably. She'd moved in to the Slytherin dormitory the previous night, and found it chilly, but blessedly empty. It had been an interesting experience, having her mind read by a centuries-old hat. The hat had been suitably shocked by what it found, but seemed pleased and almost smug. It had, upon learning about her concern, assured her that all thoughts were confidential--something which, in retrospect, she should have realized. Nonetheless, the hat maintained a strangely respectful tone throughout the "interview", acceding her point about secrecy and placing her in Slytherin where, it assured her, she'd have the opportunity to deal with her current problem. She could only hope it was right. From what her Gryffindor friends had told her, Slytherins were a generally shady lot, maybe they would let her keep her secrets in peace.

She'd pulled her hair back for the occasion, charming her curls into two tight French braids down the sides of her head. Of course, she wasn't Charles--it took a little more than a whim to change her appearance--but she thought the difference made her look older and more imposing. If she'd read the cues from Harry and Professor Snape correctly, in Slytherin House first impressions were very important. She'd rather come off as arrogant and unapproachable than gullible and childish.

The great hall was totally silent. It was very beautiful--if a little medieval--the houses' respective banners flying high above each table, all four cutting shockingly white lines across the floor, reflecting the candlelight and the shine of the moon and stars. It was as though, despite the colours they chose to wear, underneath they were all alike, clean and white and crisp.

She felt a pang as she thought of the classes at home, and about Dom, Izzie, Frank, and Pascale returning to Opasquia without her. She would miss the Elk dorm, with its low ceilings and plush couches. Slytherin was sparse on comfort, providing a few couches nearest to the fireplace, the rest of the room being filled with press-back chairs around heavy oak tables. A farther cry, still, from the coziness of Gryffindor tower. It would be interesting to watch the segregation of the school. She'd surmised that Slytherin and Gryffindor weren't on the best of terms, but lacked the context to really understand such a divide within the school. If their attitudes were anything like their taste in furniture, it would be an education in more than just magic.

A door opened to the left of the hall, and a tiny little man shuffled in, tripping slightly on his beard, which was tucked into his belt but still trailed on the floor. As if this dwarf had released a spring, both other entrances to the Great Hall flew open and people jumbled in. The pristine silence was broken, but Frank found herself fascinated by the various people coming through the doors.

Through the front doors came an enormous man with a mane of wiry hair and an uneven lope. close behind him was Neville, with a smaller lady Frank guessed to be the Herbology teacher. The latter two were deep in discussion, and Frank shifted her attention to the other doors. The majority of students were flowing in this entrance, flashing bits of red, green, yellow, or blue. Alongside them came Professor Snape and a dark-looking woman Frank had never seen. The stream of people was clearly composed of four currents, and moved with a delightful synergy toward their respective tables. A handful of other adults came through the dwarf's door, the last of which was Albus Dumbledore.

By now the Slytherins were approaching her table, and she gave them her complete attention, as well as her best level gaze. She'd intentionally sat herself in the centre of the table, so as to not give herself a way to chicken out of meeting her dorm-mates. Her peers advanced in what seemed like a single mass, before separating into what appeared to be age-groups. She was approached by two girls who looked to be about her age. They took the seats across from her, and two boys sat beside her, leaving her a good half-foot of personal space on either side. Considerate. Or maybe they were just naturally distrustful.

"What are you doing here? This is the Slytherin table," said one of the girls. She was blond with an angular face but slightly snub nose that, coupled with her round blue eyes, gave her a bit of a vapid look.

Frank arced an eyebrow. "I'm aware of that," she said, careful to enunciate clearly. "I was sorted here."

The girl's eyes widened and crossed her hands in her lap before nodding toward Frank. "Oh. Well that's all right, then. I'm Pansy Parkinson." There was a hint of a smile on her lips and her face bright with curiosity.

The other girl nudged Pansy and extended her hand across the table. "Daphne Greengrass, how are you? Did you just arrive?" Frank grasped the proffered hand briefly, and surveyed the other girl. She had long, stick-straight hair hanging in two loose braids in front of either ear. Her fingers were cool but her eyes, pale brown in rather plain features, were friendly.

Another girl slumped down to the bench beside Pansy, throwing her legs over before noticing Frank and giving her a surprised look.

"Hullo, who're you?"

Daphne shot her a withering glance. "We were just _getting_ to that, Millie."

"Oh. Well don't let me stop you." She gazed around, stopping briefly at the boys on either side of Frank. "Blaise, Draco, nice to see you, too."

The two boys stiffened slightly at having been named when they'd clearly been listening intently while trying to appear uninterested, and turned simultaneously to look at her. The new girl smirked. She was rougher-looking than Daphne and Pansy, not as comfortable in her school uniform; broad in the shoulder with dark, closely-cropped locks, she had delicately shaped eyebrows that made her deep-set eyes intense rather than unattractive.

Frank squared her shoulders and looked each of them briefly in the eye. "I'm Frank. Brooks. It's nice to meet you all. I was sorted yesterday."

"Lovely. I'm Mil, or Millie, but never Millicent, and these two louts are Draco and Blaise. You'll have to forgive their lack of manners, they've been home all summer and probably forgot to pack--"

"As if you ought to be lecturing me on manners, Bulstrode, I've more graciousness in my little finger than you do in your entire body," the blond boy, a sneer on his face but his grey eyes flashing with good humour interrupted.

Millie grinned back. "And _my_ little finger could put you in the hospital wing, Malfoy. _Without_ magic."

Draco made a noise that was part laugh-part scoff, but his sneer faded. The boy on her other side laughed. "Ah, I've missed you, Millie. Though I'm sorry for allowing you to introduce me." He offered Frank his hand. "I'm Blaise Zabini; it's a pleasure to meet you. Where are you from?"

She relaxed a little, used to this line of inquiry. "I'm from Canada, I'll be here on exchange for the year."

"On exchange?" Pansy queried, "Who are you exchanging with? A Hogwarts student?"

"Of course a Hogwarts student, Pans," Daphne scolded, "that's what it means to be on exchange."

Frank gave a small smile. "Eh, Ginny Weasley?"

In the midst of the general chaos, it was interesting that the utter silence of their particular section of table should have been unnoticeable. To Frank it was deafening. Draco gave a quiet snort. "And the littlest weasel's run away."

"Draco..." Millie said in a warning tone. "So," she said in a lighter voice, "have you seen the common room yet?"

"Well, yes, I--" But Dumbledore chose that moment to quiet the students and begin his welcoming speech, and Frank was left to muse about the exchange she'd just witnessed in silence.

8

Ginny, the Canadians, and the mysterious Tom Riddle look-a-like were gathered in the sitting room of the Inglenook, waiting for Alison to find the portkey--or whatever it was--that would take them to school. The older woman was currently turning over couch-cushions in pursuit of the desired object.

"Eh, Mom?" Charles was looking bemusedly at her mother. "Mom, why don't you just summon it?"

"What is it Charlotte, I'm busy looking for your-- oh, good idea!" And shortly there was a piece of folded paper shooting out of the kitchen and into Alison Brooks' waiting hand. With another wave of her wand, the paper had unfolded and stuck itself above the frame on the front door. Ginny, dragging her trunk, approached it curiously. It was a rune phrase, and as she watched, four of the characters detached themselves and ghosted to hover one at each corner of the door.

"Right, well off you go." The other teens were pulling luggage over to the doorway, and Alison smiling at the familiar tableau. She darted forward, pulling each of them in for a hug.

"Dominic, Izzie, look after Charlotte, won't you? Make sure she doesn't get into too much trouble?" Ignoring Charles' cry of indignation, she continued. "And Pascale, dear, please leave Charlotte's MAN alone for at least a month? Ginny, Thomas, it was lovely to meet you both, you're going to have a wonderful year at school. Darling, I'll miss you. Write me and don't forget to keep in good contact with your sister; she'll miss you more than I will." She hugged her own daughter last and gave a small wave as they all crowded through the door, luggage jostling.

Ginny, who had expected the whirling sensation of floo travel, was pleasantly surprised to find that she felt instead as though she was moving very slowly. She'd stepped across the threshold and it was like stepping into a quickly-moving stream except that instead of being pulled into the current, the current flowed around her. Like taking the floo, she would discern places only briefly before they flashed past. Some were houses, but most were outdoor locations, and she was pulled sharply from her observations when a rainstorm flew past, soaking only the front of her clothes as a result of its velocity. When her foot hit solid earth, she found herself in a grassy basin surrounded by jagged mountain peaks. In a ring around the basin, like a carpenter's Stone Henge, were vertical door frames which were emitting a fairly steady stream of students.

She took a few steps forward and a there was a flash of light from behind her. Taking a few more quick steps, she looked back to find that a pair of giggling girls had just appeared in the doorway. Ginny hurried forward to catch up with the others, who were traipsing unconcernedly across the grass. Thomas had turned back to check on her, but looked away again before their eyes met. She was still a little mystified by that boy. He'd been perfectly cordial since they'd met the evening before, but only exchanged pleasantries, never asking about her or sharing anything about himself beyond his name and country of origin. While she was wary of befriending him for his appearance, she was madly curious to figure out why he looked so much like Tom. Despite Charles' avowal of friendship, she'd been extremely quiet since Ginny's fall, and combined with the awkward interactions she had with the other Canadians over the past few days, she imagined that she'd soon be very lonely if she didn't start befriending _someone_.

She was a little dismayed at the behaviour of those she'd thought to be her friends. After she'd confronted Dom about it, she'd thought that maybe it _had_ been her imagination, but although they spoke to her readily enough, their smiles still felt temporary. She'd been relieved to hear that Charles' wanted to befriend her, but nothing the girl had done since had supported the assertion, and Ginny was beginning to wonder if she'd changed her mind and why. It was a situation that made her rather sad, and she only hoped that she would find other people in this place who wouldn't inexplicably decide to ostracize her.

By now they'd reached the other end of the field, and Ginny had no idea where they were headed next. A wall of rock was directly on front of them, rising jaggedly from the turf, but Dom and Pascale walked towards it confidently and Ginny was only half surprised when they passed through the stone as she might have passed through to Platform 9 3/4. They emerged into an entry hall, cavernous and brightly lit despite a lack of visible light source. Their baggage was rapidly tagged and whisked away by rather hairy beings that bore a slight resemblance to House Elves. Dominic handed her an umbrella and shot her a grin which she couldn't return. Looking around she noticed numerous umbrella stands placed about the room. He opened his and was immediately lifted from the ground and towards the illuminated ceiling. Ginny followed suit and now realized why the ceiling had seemed so high: there was none--the chasm continued upward through the mountain, populated by dozens of umbrella-borne students in a steady updraft.

8

Arthur set his bag lunch down on a table in the Ministry's dining hall, and slid into a chair, his mouth already watering at the thought of Molly's corned beef. The first sandwich was gone is much too short a time, but the second turned sour in his mouth when he glanced up to see Percy sharing a table across the room with Thorfinn Rowle, a paper pusher in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and suspected Death Eater. His son was wearing the expression that he'd first perfected at the age of four while taking cooking lessons from his mother. It was that of a boy eager to please.

He swallowed the bolus of food, not tasting any of it, and washed it down with a swig of equally-bland pumpkin juice. Percy nodded gravely to something Thorfinn said, then gave a quick smile, no doubt in response to a joke only intended to be funny. He adjusted his glasses, an action that had always been a telling nervous tic, and smiled again.

Arthur hunched in his seat, not wanting to watch his politically-driven son chat up a Death Eater, but still unable to look away. For all that he knew Percy's familiar mannerisms--some of which came from Arthur himself--he realised that he didn't really know his son. It had been more than a year since the last time Percy had come for dinner at the Burrow, and many months since he'd returned his Christmas jumper unopened.

At this last thought, Arthur remembered how distraught Molly had been, and how long it had taken to quiet her sobs on a day that should have been full of the happiness of the holidays, and his jaw tightened. Though he missed him terribly, he was still not ready to forgive his wayward, ambitious son, and gathered the remains of his lunch as he dragged his eyes from the unpleasant  
scene.

Should Percy decide to return to the Burrow of his own volition, he would have a lot to make up for. Until then, Arthur would hold his anger in check, and his disappointment close, and try to support the rest of his family as best he could.

8

Sitting with the sixth-year Slytherins in their common room as they bantered about their potions homework was fascinating. She found both of the other fifth-year girls in her dorm to be cordial enough, but close friends with each other, and so she most often sought Draco and Pansy's friends when outside of classes. The dynamics of this friend group were much different than Harry's, and she often found herself evaluating the differences, even if she'd never mention her observations to her new friends. She'd taken careful note of their reaction at the welcoming feast when she'd mentioned the Weasleys, and didn't want to intentionally distance herself from them. Frank had an elbow on her Arithmancy textbook as she listened in, laughing occasionally when their arguments became ridiculous. Despite the Gryffindors' perception of Slytherin as a lair of liars and snakes--something which Frank was a little amused about, given her own ability for falsehood--they clearly cared for one another. They were all fiercely independent and contrary, but outside Slytherin walls became startlingly defensive of each other.

She'd been walking to breakfast the other morning with Millie, when a group of students behind them had begun gossiping about Draco. Although Frank hadn't really understood until her friend explained it afterward, they'd been talking about his father being in the wizarding prison, Azkaban, and their subsequent surprise that he'd had the nerve to return to school.

"Although," said one of the boys, "he's arrogant enough I doubt it even occurred to him that he ought to be ashamed of his father."

At this Millie had stopped short and spun to face the gossiping trio. They stumbled as they tried not to run into her. The last boy went noticeably paler.

"And what would _you_ know about it, Macmillan? What you've read in the prophet? Funny, weren't they busy this time last year denying that the Dark Lord had returned? Did you blame Potter, too, for being a nutter?" Millie's eyes flashed angrily at the boy's cry of indignation.

"Of course you didn't, because he's Harry-bloody-Potter. Keep your useless prejudices to yourself." And then she'd grabbed Frank's arm and stalked off, muttering, ironically, about "Stupid, bleating Hufflepuffs".

This had initially surprised her, since she had never seen Draco and Millie be anything less than snarky towards one another. But as she'd come to realize in the past three weeks of school, her new Slytherin friends were equally fond of each other as the Gryffindors, they were simply more reserved in displaying their gentler emotions.

Since that morning, she'd also begun asking subtle questions about her friends' families. It was not a topic that invoked many smiles in the house of green and silver. They were adept at hiding it--to the point that Frank was now certain that she was the worst liar in her house--but they couldn't mask the tension it inevitably raised. Given that his situation was more public, Draco's aversion was less surprising than the others, but all had a unanimous disinclination to be anything more than vague in reference to their home lives. From the little she'd been able to glean from her housemates, it was directly related to the war that Hermione had told her about. It seemed as though the families of her Gryffindor friends were actually at war with those of her Slytherin friends. No wonder she'd been given such lousy expectations of Slytherin House. It was strange to think that loyalties to one's house could persist out of school and into adulthood. Or that it was a perceived war between Slytherin and Gryffindor. What did the other houses think of their animosity? Why was Gryffindor considered the allies of "Light" against the Sytherin "Dark"? It seemed just a little too boxy for Frank's liking.

It was fine in fairy tales, but nothing in real life was ever so clear-cut. It was like the unexplained taboo on Old Magic. No one talked about the shades of grey. No one mentioned Gryffindors who followed Voldemort or the Hufflepuffs who opposed him. Frank was vastly curious about the story behind these convenient simplifications. She knew her friends weren't evil, and she knew her other friends weren't stupid, so why was it so hard for them all to see the deception of Light and Dark?

The reason, she'd been reading, for the stringent oppression of everything to do with the Old Magics was fear. Fear of a magical technique that, if used maliciously, could threaten the secrecy of the Wizarding World. While not excusing it, the explanation did lend a little cogency to the otherwise-irrational persecution. But the war with Voldemort?

It was easy to see the liberal use of fear in the Dark Lord's campaign, but that didn't have to translate directly to the Slytherins. More likely, the fear of the former generation had infected that of the younger, and made them blind to the possibilities afforded by a new war and a new set of rules. If they could only befriend each other, to make strong inter-house ties, wouldn't that significantly impede Voldemort's efforts?

She retreated from her thoughts when she felt something tickling her ear. She flinched away from the sensation and focused on Draco, who was swishing the ostrich feather of his quill about with an amused smile.

"I know Arithmancy's tough, Brooks, but don't get too depressed or you'll get frown lines, and that'd be really unattractive."

She rolled her eyes, but his remark had had the desired effect, and she couldn't help but smiling. Draco's smile widened in return and he set his quill down on his parchment.

"Now, tell Blaise to give me the answer to the first question, because I _know _he's finished it, and quit looking like someone's died." Draco gestured to his friend, and gave her an imploring look.

She looked at his expression, part mockery part good humour, and wondered blackly how was it that she'd left the edgy situation in Canada only to find herself in one which was potentially even more serious? No, she thought, no one's died. Not yet.

8

_A/N: I'm rather excited at the moment. I've just written a major(and exciting!) plot point in one of the future chapters: something that has literally been years in the making. So leave me a review, and we'll see when you lot get to read it._


	15. A Restless Wind Inside a Letter Box

_People have to learn sometimes not only how much the heart, but how much the head, can bear._

_Maria Mitchell_

* * *

Fifteen: A restless wind inside a letter box

The architecture of the school was very strange. It was obvious at all times that it was situated inside a mountain because, as near as she could tell, Opasquia had actually been carved _out_ of the rock. Most of the hallways were no more than tunnels, with globes of light illuminating what would otherwise be total darkness, since scant few had any natural light. The rest were cut and polished, making the smooth surfaces shimmer eerily in the dim lighting. Many of the tunnels had branches that were completely dark, and Ginny was not yet brave enough to venture down them without some kind of map. Anywhere that the tunnels opened up into larger spaces had been used for classrooms, residences, and larger halls, like the entry hall and the dining hall. These open spaces were lit by sky light that filtered through natural gaps in the stone, warded against the elements. Here and there was a high, large-paned window, numerous enough that Ginny was never surprised to see them, but few enough that they still looked out of place. It was not a comfortable school, but there was a majesty to the towering precipice of the entry hall, the streaks of crystal that shimmered in the rock walls, and the way that any truly open space lifted a vaulted ceiling into the roof of the mountain.

There had been no Sorting Ceremony that she'd been aware of that had placed her in Osprey Class at Opasquia. It had simply been a matter of finding her name on a list and subsequently locating her new living quarters. Osprey was orange, and by touching the corresponding colour on a palette mounted on the wall at intersecting hallways, she could make an orange ribbon unfurl along the corridor, marking the path she was to take. It was a handy system, she granted, even something that Hogwarts could afford to learn from, as she had not gotten lost once in the two weeks she'd been at her new school. Since she was navigating a poorly-lit series of caves, it was a system she was particularly thankful for.

Totally reliant on the orange stripes to lead her true, Ginny hadn't done much exploring, but the atmosphere under the mountain was a far cry from the bustling halls she was used to. She still didn't, for example, have a clear grasp of the size of the school--neither of the student population nor the size of the building itself(if you could call it a building). At no point had she ever seen the entire student population gathered in one place. Meals were eaten between classes but not necessarily at the same time every day, varying slightly with each class's timetable, so that in a day Osprey could be eating with Salmon, Bear, and Moose. It was disconcerting, to so rarely see the same students twice, and the result was that she was only familiar with the other students in Osprey and her former Cathedrillian friends.

They were former friends, she knew that for certain now. All four of them belonged to Elk Class, and she knew this only because Osprey and Elk had Tactiles classes together. Pascale's hair had been impossible not to notice, but when they'd completely ignored her(and her equally-apparent still blue mane) she resolved to do the same. It stung a bit, such a blatant snubbing, but she'd dealt with worse ostracization in her first year, and told herself she'd be fine. She found herself missing Charles' ridiculous antics and Dom's easy smile, but hardened her heart at the feeling. She was nothing if not stubborn, and if they were not inclined to speak to her then she was hardly going to seek them out.

She'd been drawn to Tactiles immediately, finding it to be a slightly more creative variant on Transfiguration. Like she'd surmised from her previous discussions with Charles, there was very little onus on actual spells here; while they were given a loose incantation that served as a push in the right general direction, the limits were almost entirely self-imposed. Transfiguration in this manner became much more experimental.

Ginny found it strange, at first, that they were essentially expected to create their own spells. There was a position at the Ministry for Magic whose sole purpose was the creation and presentation of spells. Spells written by a Spellwright were subsequently submitted to a panel for evaluation and then voted into popular usage. It wasn't really a priority anymore, writing spells, since after many hundreds of years all the spells that were required for everyday living and more specialized spells for fields like curse-breaking and obliviating had already been written. Of the handful of Spellwrights still in the Ministry's employ, only one was on salary, the others retired and returning only for consulting jobs and magical emergencies. She knew this because the Department for the Creation and Maintenance of Magical Incantations was situated down the corridor from that of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, and she'd met the lady who worked there on days when she'd gone to work with her father. Now that she was required to more or less do it herself, she wished she'd asked Madam Nycodus a few more questions.

The students had been given a clay bowl that first day, and told that this year they would be transforming solid matter. With this in mind, Osprey and Elk had been instructed to change their bowls into whatever they chose, provided it wasn't clay.

Frustratingly, the best she could manage by the end of the period was a clay bowl that sagged as if it hadn't been left in the kiln long enough. Other students had made elaborate stone vases, felt hats, glass panes, and in one case, a bagel. Ginny swallowed her disappointment and promised herself that she would do better next time.

She had only varying degrees of success, however, in her other classes, none of which were shared with Elk. Most of the classes were similar to those she'd taken at Hogwarts, and she quickly discovered that when Opasquia claimed to teach the Magic Arts, it meant exactly that. She had a class called Guises, in which the students learned to temporarily transform their bodies, and in their new get-up would perform short pieces of prose or poetry. Ginny didn't really see the point in staging mock performances, but thought that Hogwarts could maybe do with a class focused on disguising one's appearance. Especially during war-time. The largest benefit of this class was that she finally figured out how to regain her natural hair colour, and she was pleased to erase the reminder of that part of her past with Charles and her former friends.

Her most useless class by far was Transcription, in which they were given runic poems to translate. She'd taken Ancient Runes back at home, but translation in those classes was usually of factual text that could be genuinely useful. If there was a purpose to these poems she had yet to figure out what it was. She suspected that these were the passages that she was then forced to perform in Guises, but so far no one had confirmed the theory.

She'd met the other students in Osprey that first evening in Opasquia and, while they were all unfailingly polite, none seemed particularly anxious to be anything more than acquaintances. Her roommate was a pleasant but introverted girl named Alice who seemed to prefer the company of books to people. She told Ginny that she was currently working her way through the Network's Drifter Literature archive, and inquired if there were any she were familiar with. Ginny had taken Muggle Studies, but beyond Winnie the Pooh there were no other books the two girls had read in common. As a roommate, however, Alice was quiet, polite, and respectful of Ginny's privacy-- something which the latter appreciated but, when she'd grown up in a house full of brothers, wasn't really necessary.

The other girls in Osprey were civil enough, but kept to themselves, having divided into cliques long ago. The boys were more readily friendly, and she could now identify all six of the boys in her year by name. Her first conversation with them, halfway through the first week, was mostly about the only other British student in the school, Thomas James, and whether she knew anything about him.

"Not really," she'd replied, wishing, after a few days of repeatedly telling people that she was here on exchange and that yes, she was from England, that she had more to say. "He rented a room in the same house I was staying at the night before school started, but he didn't tell me anything but his name." He was also in many of her classes, but he hadn't even caught her eye, never mind tried to start up another conversation.

"Eh," said Jaques, the shortest and most outspoken of the group, "tall, dark, and enigmatic. He's going to give Dominic Roth a run for title of Opasquia's most mysterious bachelor. Although I hear Dominic may not be quite so single any more." Her eyes had widened slightly at their description of Dom, but no one noticed, so entranced were they by school hearsay.

"So _I_ hear," confirmed Mark, their group's headiest gossip. "Rumour says that he and Pascale are engaged, so it's probably accurate to say that they've held hands and that he _could _be labeled as not-quite-single."

"Ooh, Angela was totally sick for him last year; if he's out of it, do you think she'd give me a chance?" Timothy was thin, spindly and excitable, and looked only slightly dejected at his peers' unanimous dissent.

"With Thomas James and his accent oh-so-ready to take Dominic's place? Not a chance, dude." Jaques looked almost regretful. "Some guys have all the luck. I mean, really. Ginny, if you had to pick between one of us and Thomas, who would be your first choice?"

"Well," interjected Alai before she could reply, for which she was rather grateful, "Given that you've listed his accent as one of his attractive characteristics and Ginny's from a similar region, that would confound the validity of her answer, would it not?"

Jaques rolled his eyes. "My opinion polls don't have to be scientifically sound, Alai. I was making a point."

"That's not an excuse. If you want your argument to hold then any kind of proof you present needs a certain level of rigor."

And so Ginny was saved from having to think too deeply about her English male counterpart. When she was approached a day or so later, however, it was about an entirely different boy.

Dylan and Tyler were polite friends with the other boys in Osprey, but spent most of their time apart from their peers, their heads bent over books or papers, discussing what, Ginny didn't know. When they cornered her in at the dinner table after Tactiles, she was extremely surprised at their line of questioning.

"You go to Hogwarts, right? In England?" Tyler was easily the most exuberant of the two.

"Yes, why?"

"Then you've got to have met Harry Potter! What's he like? Does he really have the scar from where You-Know-Who tried to kill him?"

Ginny fought a wince on Harry's behalf. Apparently an ocean and half a continent was not enough to curb the enthusiasm of fans of the Boy-Who-Lived. That she was once part of that category herself was cause for another wince.

"Er, yeah, but I'm surprised _you_ know of him. That was a long time ago."

"Oh, my grandpa used to read me stories about him. He lived in Britain back when You-Know-Who was around. Britain is great! Where else could come up with Harry Potter _and_ Doctor Who? So have you talked to him? Does _he_ like Doctor Who?"

Ginny, more than a little perturbed and disinclined to give the boy Harry's life story, told Tyler that yes, she'd talked to him, but no, didn't know if he liked Doctor Who. She neglected to mention that she had no idea who Doctor Who _was_, but the antsy boy didn't clarify, so she left it at that.

She settled, in that first little while, into the struggle of staying afloat in her classes, which she found as confounding as they were familiar. Often she was required to do things that she had been completely capable of at Hogwarts, but in a manner that was as alien as being asked to breathe through her fingernails.

She had a Potions class, for example, that was part potions-part cooking, and she'd amused herself for a while trying to picture Snape in the large red apron their professor wore to every class. The difficult part was the wandwork involved in producing any decent recipe, and although Ginny had done a bit of cooking by wand with her mother, the expectations of her Potions class were a little beyond her abilities.

Herbology had similarly been turned on its head. Opasquia had no greenhouses, and so class time was spent studying drawings and leaf-rubbings, learning to identify plants that Ginny had grown as far back as third year. The only exception to this was the gross array of mushrooms and fungi growing in one of the lower caves that was harvested once a week and sent out to various apothecaries. Ginny soon found herself knowing much more about these cave-loving plants than she would likely ever need to. Additionally, once a week, the class would take a walk through the forested area nearest the mountain, and then submit an envelope with the day's assignment placed under a stasis charm. She didn't know why they preferred keeping their plants in stasis instead of growing them fresh. Both Professor Sprout and Professor Snape had always lauded the benefits of fresh ingredients, but she was hardly qualified enough to be criticising Opasquia's methods.

Her first Jo'Ouqye class was scheduled on the second Monday of classes, and it was with a small amount of excitement that she made her way to the Jo'Ouqye field that morning. The game had sounded genuinely interesting when Charles and Izzie and Dominic had explained it, and she was looking for a temporary substitute for Quidditch, which she was missing quite badly. She also hoped, rather desperately, that this would be a class where she'd have some transferable skill, and that she'd not perform quite as abominably as she had in her other classes.

To her surprise, the field was packed. More students than she had in all her other classes combined were milling about a circular grassy area with a generally impatient air about them. They appeared to span all school years, and many wore a tight black suit instead of their Class colours, which she'd thought mandatory at all times.

The professor arrived shortly and the roll was called in conjunction with which team every student would be practicing with. The teams didn't seem to follow the animal classes at all, named instead with bizarre permutations of the Greek alphabet. From this Ginny surmised that she had been sorted into the least able group, though she was gratified to see that Thomas James had also been put into said group. Maybe new students were defaulted into Esilphon before there was a chance to gauge their ability.

However, over the next few hours she found herself totally unable to master even the most basic routines that their group leader was trying to drill them in. She was seemingly worse at Jo'Ouqye than she was in any of her other classes, which was disheartening. Even Thomas was doing better than her. When the class ended at lunch time, she was frustrated, bitter, and nursing a splitting headache. Amidst the hunger-driven exodus she confronted him.

"How did you do that?" She glared angrily, ignoring the extra pain it caused.

"Do what?" He genuinely sounded confused, which only served to make her angrier.

"How were you able to do those things the very first time; I've never had to do anything of the sort in England."

He ran a hand through his hair, but she noticed he still didn't meet her eyes. "I had the people in my dorm explain how it was supposed to work before I came. Didn't want to appear totally ignorant, you know?" And he shot her a sidelong glance as he moved to walk past her.

Ginny stood still, her mouth open to reply as her brain tried painfully to figure out if he'd just insulted her. Eventually deciding that he had and not sure how she felt about it, she turned to follow the petering stream of students back into the mountain.

8

Supporting the soil under the root ball with his fingers, Neville muttered a spell and slipped the tangle of roots into the newly-dug hole. Another spell moistened the soil, and a third canceled the petrificus keeping his fingers protected from teeth. Now maintaining a good distance from the Snapping Dragon, he returned to the box of petrified seedlings to get another.

The greenhouses had been his sanctuary since Professor Sprout had begun to allow him unsupervised access in his second year. He'd never been very close to the other Griffindors in his year; Harry and Ron had each other, as did Dean and Seamus, and with Hermione occupied with the first pair, and Lavender and Parvati not willing to give him the time of day, he became used to being alone. It wasn't conscious, he knew, but no one was ever keen to befriend the chubby, untalented kid who wasn't the fastest broom in the shed. Until he met Luna, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were, perhaps, his closest friends, but they were still very much a trio. He didn't begrudge them this too much; they surpassed him in almost every area, and he hadn't had the confidence or drive to challenge them.

But he did now, and this awful waiting was driving him mad. He needed to learn, to do something useful, to do more than twiddle his thumbs and hand in useless essays on the correct application of the _Argentio_ charm. Unfortunately, before he could propose reopening the DA or anything along those lines, he needed Harry. Harry was the leader. Neville could have all the motivation in the world, but if there was no one for others to rally around, then he would be on his own, again.

The door to the greenhouse opened to admit a harried-looking Frank Brooks, and Daphne Greengrass, who never appeared troubled by anything. Neville regarded the pair from behind the spindly plant as he tamped down the soil around the currently-petrified seedling.

"What exactly are you looking for again, Brooks?" Greengrass asked with polite curiosity.

"Eh? Ah, it's a little machine of sorts. About this big and kind of silvery..." Frank had her back to him, but he imagined that she was making some kind of gesture for the other girl. "I think I was sitting over by the Hydrangeas--or was it the Hibiscus?" Greengrass was closer to the former, and walked in Neville's direction. They locked eyes, and she stared at him cooly. Turning her gaze towards the ground, she scanned the decomposing boards laid for purchase along the earthen floor. Neville stepped back and unfroze the flower he'd just planted.

Greengrass had bent to retrieve something, and when she stood, there was a silver tube clutched in her hand. "Frank? Is this it?" she called, holding her find above her head.

"Ooh, yes!" Frank bounded over, her eyes on whatever it was she'd lost, and plucked it from the other Slytherin's outstretched hand. In doing so, she must have noticed Neville standing there, because she faltered a bit.

"Um, eh, hello," she stammered, not meeting his eyes. She twisted the lost item nervously in her hands.

Neville looked between Frank and Daphne, noticing the latter's raised eyebrows and Frank's obvious distress. She clearly hadn't told her Slytherin friends that she was also friends with a bunch of Gryffindors. He couldn't really blame her.

"Hi," Neville replied, raising his hand in a kind of lame wave.

Frank made an anxious, impatient noise in her throat, and looked towards the door, as though torn by the awkward situation. Neville made the decision for her. He stooped down over the rest of the seedlings, crouching and running his fingers through them as he stalled, waiting for Frank to collect herself and leave.

"Thanks, Daphne. I'd go nuts without this thing. We, uh, better go; don't you guys have a Transfiguration exam tomorrow? I'm sure Pansy's anxious for you to get back."

Neville waited until the glass door clacked shut behind them, and then straightened, rubbing his empty hands on his trousers and looking over at the exit in thought.

8

Frank returned to the common room with Daphne only briefly before making for the kitchens, her palate and her heart craving an extremely thick mug of hot chocolate. It was stupid. She wanted to be friends with Draco and Daphne _and_ with Neville and Hermione. Whereas the latter two didn't seem violently opposed to the idea, she'd picked up some very hostile vibes from the Slytherins in regards to the Gryffindors. The entire situation was stressful, but not the kind of stressful that brought on anger or irritation, both energies that could be put to use; this just left her sad and a little dejected.

Tickling the pear, Frank stepped over the threshold and was surprised to find her legs immediately occupied not by house elves, but by Crookshanks. The orange feline wove figure eights around her insteps, and she smiled a small smile to feel the rumble of his purr. Bending down, Frank reached a hand behind his ears, and Crookshanks arched into her palm, the eyes on his fat, squashed face narrowed to happy slits.

She looked up to see a small gaggle of house elves surrounding her. An elf with wide-set yellow eyes and a particularly spindly neck stepped forward. She seemed to remember that his name was Bobbly, and wondered if it was on account of his head balancing so precariously.

"Miss Francis, you is wanting more of that chocolate?"

"Yes, please, er... that cup you made for me last time was delicious." The elves started chattering happily at the praise, and a few detached to join the larger assembly manning fires and stoves.

In the moment that she'd taken her eyes and hands off Crookshanks, he'd apparently grown impatient for more petting, and rubbed against her leg so forcefully that she toppled from her squatting position and landed square on her rump.

"Crookshanks! That wasn't very nice," she tried to chasten, but her reprimand was entirely ruined when one of the elves walked over to give the half-kneazle's ear a scratch.

"Miss Herminony's cat is catching four baby mouses where we is keeping our potatoes."

"Crooks! _Baby_ mice? How could you!" But Crookshanks merely regarded her blandly and cleaned his whiskers. The elf looked at her in surprise, and beat a marginally hasty retreat.

Bobbly returned. "Your hot cocoa, Miss."

"Thank-you!" she said emphatically, taking the large, steaming mug and inhaling deeply. Chocolate was the cure to all ills. Well, maybe that was ice cream. No, chocolate had to tie at the very least. The stuff was heavenly. The first sip slid sinfully down her throat, and the second made _most_ of her stress evaporate. She sighed. Crookshanks meowed sympathetically.

"You know, Crookshanks, I have the opposite problem that I was afraid I'd have coming to Hogwarts. I thought, 'Well, Frank, you've had the same four friends, give or take, since you were in diapers, what on earth are you going to do for friends in a school of strangers?' Only, now I have lots of friends, but one half can't stand the other, and vice versa. It puts a girl in a certain sort of awkward situation, even if it wasn't the sort she was expecting."

Crookshanks eyebrows twitched disapprovingly.

"Yes, it _could_ always be worse, but that's no way to judge a situation, now, is it? Not unless you're satisfied being downright unhappy."

Her audience of one bent down and began cleaning his front paws.

"I know, I know. I _do_ enjoy what I've got, certainly, but I just I wish my life was just a little less complicated. I thought that maybe this year I'd be able to have a bit of fun with people who _don't_ have Big, Dark Secrets hanging over their heads."

She took a long draught of chocolate, and Crookshanks stopped his bath, looked inscrutably at her, then rammed his head into her knuckles, clearly demanding another petting. She obliged.

"Thanks. You know, I've missed you, down in the dungeons. Do you want to come warm my bed every once in a while? I don't think Hermione would mind _too_, too much."

She heard the giggle that meant someone had just tickled the pear, turned, and was surprised to see Blaise step through. He looked at her equally nonplussed, and a moment later, said, "Frank! I didn't know you knew where the kitchens were."

"Yeah, uh, someone told me one of my first days here. It's pretty nice. The elves make a really good cup of hot chocolate."

He smiled. "The elves make a really good everything. I came down for a snack, myself, I missed supper and lunch was forever ago."

"Forever? Four hours?" Frank laughed. "I guess infinity could be a conceivable unit of time where a teenage boy's stomach is concerned."

Blaise's eyes widened in amusement. "If you only knew, Brooks, if you only knew."

Blaise's snack turned out to be a plate of ham and a side of éclairs. She was a little surprised when he sank, cross-legged, beside her, balanced a plate on each knee, and began to eat. Blaise had always been slightly more distant when talking to her than Millie or Draco, and although friendly, he had an aloofness about him that would have, she'd thought, curtailed eating on the stone floor next to a smooshy-faced half-kneazle.

Said feline chose that moment chose that moment to lift his head from Frank's knee and meow in an interruptive fashion. Blaise raised an eyebrow thoughtfully, and after swallowing his piece of ham, said, "Isn't that Hermione Granger's cat?"

Frank blinked in surprise. "I, uh," she tried valiantly to feign ignorance, "is it?" Crookshanks meowed again, this time at Frank, and he didn't sound pleased.

"I think so. It's a bit distinctive, right?"

"I suppose," Frank said, glad that it wasn't going to bring on an inquisition. "He's, uh, very friendly." But as if he'd understood her, Crookshanks bristled, backed up a few steps, raised his nose and tail in the air, and padded out of the Kitchen.

"Well," Frank amended, "he _was_ friendly.

But Blaise agreed with her. "The few times I've seen him in the dungeons, he's been more than amenable to a quick stroke. That thing purrs like thunder. I actually think it's loud enough to echo; it's uncanny."

Frank frowned. "Why, if you're fine with petting Hermione Granger's cat, do you hate her so much?"

Blaise raised an eyebrow. "I don't hate Hermione Granger."

Frank looked over at his guarded expression. "No?" She'd discovered long ago that when someone was concealing information, opinion, factual, or otherwise, short replies often garnered the best results.

"No." Blaise, however, appeared to be an exception.

"It kind of seems like that," she prompted again.

"Well it's not the case."

Frank floundered. A thin coat of ice now lay across the conversation, and she wasn't sure how to revive it. "What about Draco?" Mentally, she hit herself over the head for beating what was clearly a dead horse.

"Draco hates Granger." Blaise popped another piece of ham in his mouth and chewed.

"Oh." The ice had cracked, but Frank had no idea how to respond to this affirmation. She didn't want to seem too interested, like she was personally invested in the response. "Why is that?"

But Blaise didn't seem to think her question odd. He took a bit of eclair, then set the pastry down and licked cream from his thumb thoughtfully.

"Because she's friends with Potter and Weasley. You wouldn't know Potter; he's in the hospital for magical exhaustion, if the Prophet's to be believed. Do you know about how the Dark Lord fell from power?"

Frank nodded, her half-empty cup of chocolate cold and heavy in her hands.

"It was because He tried to kill a baby Harry Potter. The _savior_ of the Wizarding World; I'm sure everyone expects him to gain another victory for the Light...only now Potter's unconscious and isn't gaining anything but bedsores. Bit of a sad story, really." He smirked.

Frank fought to keep her expression neutral, but her fingers were tight and clammy around her mug.

Blaise propped an elbow on his knee, and tossed the last bite of eclair into his mouth. "You know Weasley, of course. His sister's currently attending your school in your place, is that right?"

Frank blinked, her heart suddenly hammering. This conversation was proving to be increasingly stressful. "Eh, yeah. That's part of the exchange."

"Did you get to meet her?"

She coughed through the tightness that choked her throat and purposely avoided Blaise's suddenly intense gaze. "Just--just the once. On my way over." Frank's mind raced for a segue that could shift the focus of the conversation. "She warned me about Snape."

His lips quirked and his eyes shifted toward the ceiling just before Blaise let out a bark of laughter. "Of course she did! What a Gryffindor! And? Is Snape really as awful as she said?"

"Well, no. He seems knowledgeable enough about Potions, but I don't think he likes me."

"What makes you say that?" Blaise looked amused, and didn't seem to notice when a couple of house elves quietly removed his empty dishes.

"Well, he's always glowering at me."

Blaise raised his eyebrows in surprise. "At you? Really? That's rather high praise. Usually he reserves glowering for Hufflepuffs and Dumbledore. All most Slytherins ever get is a sneer-- or sometimes an aloof stare."

Frank frowned. Was he serious? He was gazing earnestly at her, his hands folded neatly in his lap. Seriously serious? She hadn't thought Snape as dour as that. He worked in a volatile environment, and yes, he was strict, but not unreasonable in his demands. Then the left corner of Blaise's mouth twitched, and she grinned, knowing he'd simply been teasing her.

Blaise's twitch widened into a genuine smile, and he stood, brushing himself off. "I was so close, Brooks. I could just see the sparks whirring through your head, 'Is he joking? Circe, what if he's not?'. _So_ close."

Frank started a bit, her smile frozen on her face. Sparks were a metaphor, she told herself. There was only one Fielder at Hogwarts. She forced a laugh.

"Yeah, yeah. How was I to know? He _is_ a bit grumpy." She gave a little grumble as she got to her feet, handing her mug to a passing house elf.

Blaise chuckled. "Grumpy? I've heard everything from vampire to dungeon bat to the greasy git with an over-large schnoz, but grumpy is a new one."

She rolled her eyes. Difficult as he was to read, and deftly as he'd misdirected her questions about Hermione, Blaise never failed to make her feel welcome among the Slytherins. In fact, seldom in the days since she'd been sorted had she ever felt out of place. There were so many mistaken perceptions between Slytherin and Gryffindor. She felt as comfortable in her house as she had with the Weasleys. Surely that couldn't be a mistake. Somehow she would see the two reconciled.

8

As September drew to a close, Ginny found that her classes were getting a teensy bit more sensible and that she was gaining a much better understanding of her MAN. There wasn't a formal lecture on its uses, instead she was scheduled twice a week to attend a study hall of sorts, where the students were given either a problem to solve or a paper to read. Out of class, her MAN served as kind of an all-in-one textbook, and she'd learned in the first week how to access the virtual compendium of magical literature. She supposed it was sensible, in a way, not to keep many books in the mountain, since she'd noticed how damp everything was and how rarely she ever felt truly dry. She couldn't imagine Madame Pince's reaction should she come across books archived in such conditions. Or Hermione's, for that matter.

Despite her friendly acquaintance with the boys in Osprey and a growing warmth in her interactions with Alice, Ginny still felt the insistence of homesickness whenever she thought of her friends and family in Britain. She'd begun, recently, to have extremely vivid dreams of the people she missed, and as a result was sleeping more and more. This change in her daily patterns was not just a response to the content of the dreams; she'd noticed that despite the amount she slept, she didn't feel well-rested the next morning. In fact, she'd often wake up with a headache that would plague her the rest of the day, abating only when she would finally relent and visit the Nurse's office for a cure.

It was a good thing, then, that her classes were coming more easily to her, since her headaches proved detrimental to both her mood and concentration, making her listless and flighty. To further aggravate her foul mood, she found herself in more than one class with Thomas James, who, while he may have been cordial at the Inglenook, had, since their discussion on the Jo'Ouqye field, seemed to have made it his personal mission to ignore her as completely as possible. Her ostracization from the only person with whom she may have been able to reminisce about things from home might have hurt less than the rejection of Charles and the others, but for that she was partnered with him in every class that they took together. As near as she could tell, the professors assumed that the two transfer-slash-exchange students ought to have enough in common that they'd be able to help each other figure out the foreign magic system, but James' silence ensured that mutual aid was impossible.

It was bad enough that she had to sit with his stoic passivity in four of her six classes, but when his face began cropping up in her dreams, she became genuinely upset. The first time it had happened she had been dreaming of a family Quidditch match on the Hogwarts pitch, complete with all four house stands screaming for Weasley victory. She'd walked out onto the field, backed by Charlie, Fred, George, and, for some reason, her great Aunt Muriel, but when they reached the centre line, it wasn't Bill or Ron, or even Percy facing her, but Thomas James. He'd given her a lopsided grin that she'd never seen him wear while awake, but her dream self had thought nothing of it. Hermione had then rushed onto the pitch, gesticulating emphatically to Thomas before dragging him away. It wasn't until she awoke that her brain finally found itself irked at his interrupting her otherwise-pleasurable dream.

She was equally irked that he seemed to be having a much better time of the class material than she was. His appearance changed so rapidly in Guises that she almost would have guessed him to be a Metamorphmagus. He was also progressing noticeably in Jo'Ouqye, a fact that particularly rankled, since although she'd been improving in her rolls and dodges, she'd not yet managed the aided jump that was critical to almost all routines. The only areas where she surpassed him were Transcription, which was essentially Ancient Runes and didn't require wandwork, and Linear Composition, the only class she genuinely looked forward to. It was also time use of her MAN was required in class, and she'd been delighted to discover this particular usage.

The screen of her MAN, usually an opalescent and translucent blue that displayed information at an angle perpendicular to whatever surface she set it on, could be set at an angle and used as a kind of canvas, on which she could set figures, designs, and drawings. Holding her wand like a brush and being careful not to put it _through_ her screen, since it was immaterial, she could create and manipulate intricate "compositions" in three dimensions. Her creations, whether organic or mechanical, animal or architectural, once given proper dimensions(a task which required all her previous knowledge of Arithmancy), could then be realized. The first teacup that she'd conjured this way had startled her so much that she'd lost her focus and it had disintegrated into wisps of spidery blue lines. The second had remained corporeal for almost an entire period, and she'd felt enormously proud of herself, especially when her professor complimented her success. The other students had been taking Linear Composition since their equivalent of third year, but it was only toward the end of their fourth that they'd begun conjuring their sketches.

His acknowledgment of her achievement despite having begun less than a month previously was almost enough for her to forget her irritation with Thomas for a while. The British boy hadn't yet managed a coherent three-dimensional construct yet, never mind brought it into existence, but she was not so forgiving that she felt inclined to offer to help him. He'd sat sullenly through every one of her mishaps, and she would be deluding herself if she didn't admit that a small part of her enjoyed watching him struggle for once.

8

Ron ran a hand over his face and yawned. He'd finished his transfiguration essay three hours ago and it wasn't due until next week. If this had ever happened before, he would then have been lounging around in the common room, perhaps with a game of chess, or the new Quidditch mag; he would _definitely_ not be still in the library, his fingers grey with dust and a stack of books taller than Dobby by his elbow. But he was, because it was the only thing he could be doing at the moment to help Harry.

Hermione slammed her book shut, and stared angrily at the space two feet in front of her nose, a crinkle between her eyebrows. He could feel her frustration keenly, even from his position across the table, and sympathised, but couldn't find himself entirely upset, as she had a smudge of dust on her jaw that made her anger adorable. He wanted things to go the way they ought to have. He wanted it so strongly that his chest ached from the desire. He wanted a reality with he and Hermione and Harry having an easier year than the last, with Dumbledore back and Umbridge gone, the Ministry allowing actual defense to be taught at Hogwarts, and without the pinch of worry that now constantly adorned his girlfriend's face.

She'd enforced a strict study schedule for the two of them that left them with a couple of hours every night to devote to Harry. Despite their efforts, however, so far they'd come up with nothing. And not just nothing, but every source they found told them that Harry's condition ought to have been impossible. There was no way that he could have magically exhausted himself taking out a couple of Death Eaters. If he'd tried to levitate the Hogwarts lake, it would _maybe_ have knocked him out for a few hours: days and weeks was simply unheard of.

"There's nothing here, Ron," Hermione said, turning towards him.

"How can that be? Even when we couldn't find the right information to help Harry with the second task it was only because we weren't looking in the right place! We just have to keep trying." He tried to impose an optimistic smile on his weary features, but by the unimpressed look Hermione gave him, it probably came out as more of a grimace.

"We've _been_ trying, Ron. Every night for the past month we've been trying. No, there's something we're missing. It's extremely unlikely that in all the recorded history of magic, Harry's situation is entirely unique. There's something that either we don't know, or we're just not thinking of."

"Well, I've been doing more thinking since the beginning of the year than in all the years Harry was awake, and if I haven't thought whatever it is we're... not thinking of then I don't think I'm about to think it when I'm this exhausted." Hm. Not his best work, as far as understandability went, but sleep deprivation could excuse almost anything. "We're both carrying more than a couple of galleons around the eyes, maybe we should leave it for tonight."

Hermione let out a sigh, and a loopy tendril of hair billowed out of her face. She tucked it behind her ear. "All right. Let's go." She stood and set her tome on the tabletop, using its leverage to support her weight as she leaned forward slightly, her hair falling forward to cover her face.

It took only two strides to reach her, and when he slipped his arms around her waist he felt a surge of protectiveness and love for the petite young woman. She was so determined and so strong that at times he felt it would be impossible _not_ to find a cure for Harry if she was the one behind it. But he felt her slight trembling, her grip still on the book that wouldn't give her the answers she wanted, and knew that not even Hermione could find something that didn't exist.

He was only a little surprised when she turned abruptly and pressed her face to his chest. He obliged her by wrapping his arms firmly around her, and then rested his cheek on the top of her head. After a few minutes her shaking ceased and she untucked her face to look up at him.

Her eyes were, indeed, circled with mauve and her dusting of freckles stood out sharply on too-pale skin. The wrinkle between her eyebrows was still there. Leaning down, Ron gently placed his lips on the line, and felt it reflexively relax. Pulling back slightly, he rubbed a thumb across the smudge on her chin that had been tempting him earlier and then replaced it with a kiss. This time he felt the corner of her mouth turn up.

Her eyes opened and Ron was pleased to find the slightest of smiles on her face, Hermione took his hand and said, "Thank-you. Yes, let's go."

* * *

_A/N: My primary reason for writing is to improve. While simple practice is good, getting feedback on what I'm doing right and what I'm doing wrong is even better. Anyone willing to oblige me? I'd also be interested in a couple of people volunteering to be pre-readers, to tell me what works--or doesn't--before I post it. Is anyone besides me interested in this story is turning out?_


	16. Perchance to Dream

_Truth is stranger than fiction but it is because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities. _

_Mark Twain_

8

By the end of the month, headaches had become an almost constant companion, and Ginny's wistful dreams of home had turned into muddy, fragmented bouts of alternately tossing and turning and thinking that she had forgotten something terribly important. After these hallucinogenic nights, she could never remember falling asleep or waking up, only that she had been seized by an awful panic and it left her even more tired than she'd been before going to bed. Unlike most girls, Ginny had never previously bothered with glamours to brighten her face, but since developing deep purple smudges beneath each blood-shot eye, she had become quite adept.

Between headaches and sleep deprivation, her already-poor class performance was falling, and even Thomas had broken his own rules and looked at her in confusion when she'd failed to properly render the tea-kettle she'd been designing. She had been working on a portfolio of tea-themed paraphernalia, but when she tried to tweak the kettle into materialising, and stuttered to life only to explode in her face. Thin blue squiggles seeped harmlessly into the desk, but she was so tired and it hurt so much to focus on anything for more than a few seconds that she'd buried her face in her hands. After regaining some composure she'd lifted her head and caught Thomas looking almost concerned. She sent him a scowl.

Eventually her fitful sleep abated from sheer exhaustion, but when it did, the nightmares began. She had just laid her head on the pillow when she found herself standing on the hill between Ottery St. Catchpole and the Burrow, with the sun almost unbearably bright in contrast to the last time she'd been on this hill. It gave everything a kind of faded look, like the landscape had been scrubbed too hard in the wash. Her head pounded in the glare.

Don't turn around, Ginny, came a voice. She turned to see Bill standing below her on the hill, approximately where Harry had been standing when the lightning struck. He was walking toward her but making no headway. The buffalo she'd seen on Scarth Street appeared beside him, but instead of a sculpture, it was a live animal, its skin shredded to reveal blood and bone. Bill reached out a hand to stroke the mangled beast.

As he touched it, it became a Thestral and trotted up the hill, passed her, and bent toward something in the grass. Forgetting about Bill--and indeed she had the feeling that he wasn't even there anymore--she approached the dark lump and heard a squelching sound as the Thestral brought its head up with something red in its mouth.

The closer she got, the easier it was to make out the dark shape. It was a body with a strip of flesh torn off of the arm. Her stomach clenched when she made out the profile underneath unkempt black hair. His glasses were missing, and his forehead covered by fringe, but she knew without a doubt that underneath the lids his eyes would be bright green.

She stumbled backwards and looked away as the skeletal horse bent down to its meal once again, and turned to run but fell into a hard chest. Her eyed were blurring with tears, but when she blinked them away she found herself looking into the worried face of Tom Riddle.

Dear Ginny, what's wrong? I did tell you I was going to kill him. Are you really so surprised? And then he stroked her hair as gently as her own mother would, and she shook her head to get away from his lying hand. The brightness of the sun pierced her own eyelids and she clenched them tighter.

When she opened them again the hill was gone, and so was Tom. She was in her room at Opasquia and Harry was alive and on the other side of the Atlantic, but when she reached up to touch her cheeks, they were still damp with the imagined sorrow.

It was hardly her first nightmare about Tom, but it was certainly the first nightmare she'd had to feature Harry's corpse. And that Thestral. Odd, since she'd only ever seen pictures of them, never having seen anyone die. She shivered, recalling the vividness of his wound and the sound of the animal's chewing. Her head protested the movement dully. Sighing, Ginny threw off the covers, intent on acquiring another headache potion before even attempting sleep again.

8

"You have such pretty curls, Frank, I don't know why you always keep them plaited up," Pansy said, combing her fingers through the mess on top of the fifth year's head. Frank grimaced from her position on the floor.

"Yeah, they're dandy until you have to brush them. You have no idea how much product it takes to make my hair resemble anything other than a rat's nest."

Daphne, her face coated with a lurid green paste whose bottle had promised "skin that glows!", lifted her head from the cushion next to Frank and added, "I wish I had curly hair."

"Oh no, I love your hair, Daphne!" Frank's eyebrows rose, both at the older girl's proclamation, and at the sharp tug Pansy gave a knot of hair.

"It's fine, I suppose, but there's nothing really loveable about it. No one wants to touch its volume, or to pull on a strand just to watch it spring back. Curls have character." Frank found it surprising that a girl as sophisticated--or aloof--as Daphne would want hair that had 'character'. She didn't even use glamour charms, as almost every other girl in the dorms did. In some ways Daphne reminded her of Hermione, being intelligent, driven, and diligent in her work, but she also seemed a bit like Pascale: fairly soft-spoken until something of direct interest to her came up, at which point she abandoned all pretense of dignity.

"People almost always want what they can't have," Millie chimed in from the chaise across from them, "And hair is no exception." She finished a delicate brush stroke on her littlest toe, and looked up at the other Slytherin girls, her pale pink, freshly-painted toenails shimmering wetly. When Pansy had suggested a girls' night, Frank had been pleased--this was something she and Charles used to do fairly regularly--but had been uncertain about whether Daphne and Millie would be on board. Both girls has surprised her; Millie in particular. Who knew that beneath the solid black boots she wore under her robes every day one would find glossy pink toenails?

"So I guess you want long hair?" Pansy asked her, eyeing her short mop.

"Not at all. But I wouldn't say no to a deep shade of red." She started on the other foot.

"Eugh, really?!" Pansy's voice was a squeal of disgust in Frank's ear. "But then you'd look like a Weasley!"

"I didn't say _orange_, Pans. Besides, it's not like everyone with red hair is then a blood-traitor by default. It's just hair."

"I suppose not," Pansy said, her hands returning to play with Frank's mop. Frank consciously tried to smooth out the wrinkle that had formed on her forehead at Millie's use of the word 'blood-traitor'.

"What did you think of Snape's class today, Millie?" Daphne asked, changing the subject.

Millicent grinned, but didn't look up from her nails. "I think he's depressed that Potter's still in the hospital. It's not half as much fun to mock Wealsey on his own, now that Granger always partners him."

Pansy giggled. "Ooh, good one!"

Daphne rolled her eyes, and lay back on her pillow. Frank cast her concern back to Ron and Hermione. The few instances that she'd managed to observe them from afar, they seemed preoccupied and dispirited. She had little doubt that the reason for both was Harry being still in the hospital wing. She felt a prickle of guilt in her abdomen.

"Say, Frank, can I do your curls in green? There was this really great spell in _Witch Weekly_ last month, and it will last only until tomorrow morning."

Frank shrugged, still thinking about her Gryffindor friends.

"Oh, just you wait: it'll be loads of fun!" And Frank left her head at Pansy's mercy. In all honesty, she wasn't all that concerned about her hair. It had always proved resilient in the past. Even the six or so months it has spent entirely blue had done no lasting harm to anything other than her dignity and her taste for Charles' cooking. Hair colour didn't worry her in the slightest. How Ron and Hermione--and even Neville--were going to cope until Harry was back was much more distressing.

Feeling a little morose and a little fractious, Frank turned her head slightly to look up at Pansy through the corner of her eye. "Hey, Pansy?" she asked.

"Mmhm?" the other girl hummed, her wand in her mouth as she separated a section of hair for colouring.

"If Daphne were to get cursed into a coma tomorrow in Defense, and you found out that not even the experts knew if she'd ever wake up, what would you do?"

Pansy stopped fiddling above Frank's head, her face blank. Daphne frowned, and Millie lifted her head and regarded the three with a raised eyebrow. She snorted.

"Wow, you sure know how to kill a conversation, Brooks."

"What made you ask?" Daphne said calmly.

Frank shrugged. "Just curious. I've never met Harry Potter at Hogwarts, but I do know that if any of my good friends were in his situation, I'd be miserable. So, Pansy, what about you?"

A small crease appeared on Pansy's forehead. "What do you mean? That's never going to happen."

"Well, probably not, but suppose it did."

"But it's not."

"You don't know that."

"Lighten up, Frank," Millie said, returning to her nails. "It would be sad. What's your point?"

"Well," Frank said, choosing her words carefully, "I just don't think that you should be so judgmental of his friends. They're probably really hurting right now."

Millie snorted again. "Wow, Frank. That was almost touching. You know sometimes you seem much more the badger than any snake has a right to be."

"Millicent!" Daphne reprimanded. "That was uncalled for."

Millie capped her polish. "Was it?" She looked sharply at Daphne.

"Yes. Frank _is_ a part of our house, she just hasn't had the... benefit of years of coexisting with the Gryffindors. That's no reason for name-calling."

"Sure," she replied dismissively. "Anyway, I'm off to bed."

"But Millie," Pansy objected, "what about our girls' night?"

"I'm tired of it." She crossed the room, not looking at any of them.

"And what if it was Draco?" Frank called out, causing the other girl to pause in the doorway.

"What if it was Draco, Brooks?" she responded, and closed the door behind her.

8

Shortly after the beginning of her nightmares, Ginny started hearing things. She'd been walking down from her Guises class when the sound of a girl crying reached her ears. It was echoing in the corridor, and therefore impossible to locate, but the crying was neither loud nor particularly desperate, so she returned to her dormitory and barely gave it another thought.

The next time she heard the crying it was male, and the sobs were almost enough to break her heart. She looked around to see where it was coming from and noticed that not one other student in the classroom seemed bothered by the noise. That was her first hint that something was wrong, really: the other students' total disregard for the boy's grief. After a minute or so of trying in vain to discern where the noise was coming from, she noticed that James had stopped his transcription and was staring at her strange behaviour. Flushing, she turned to her own work and tried to block out the noise.

When she heard a quiet sniffling behind her ear during breakfast one morning, she didn't even turn to look. Jaques and Timothy were having a friendly row across from her and although there was no ill intent to their argument, it was loud enough that the almost-unnoticeable weeping should not have been audible to her. She therefore concluded that she was definitely hearing things.

It brought a rather complicated feeling, the knowledge that she was, once again, going crazy. The first time it had been frightening, terrifying. She'd felt alone and abandoned, and had wanted to hide and pretend that it wasn't happening. To bury herself in the dark that no one would ever find out. Now she knew she was alone, but wasn't worried about anyone noticing the change, since she had very little close interaction with her peers, and thus felt a sort of resignation. As if perhaps she'd been crazy all along, and her relapse of sanity nothing more than a lark.

She attended classes as usual, doing no worse than before, laughed at the boys' antics, as usual, tried to sidestep Tyler's eagerness and curiosity about Harry, also as usual, and was as polite as ever when interacting with Alice. Sometimes she'd forget about being crazy, and then she'd hit the ground jarringly in Jo'Ouqye and the broken sobs of a woman would surround her, and she'd dust herself off, try to ignore it, and attempt the roll again.

The only place that was devoid of the inexplicable crying was her dreams, but those were disturbing enough in their own right. Every night she'd fall asleep with the pillow pressed around her head to try and quell the crying, and the black of her closed eyelids would dissolve into a washed-out world similar to that of her first nightmare.

Sometimes it would be the hill from that first dream, and other times the Burrow, or the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch. But in every single white-bleached dream, regardless of the setting, she found Harry's corpse.

Once, she'd dreamt she was sitting under the oak tree in the yard at the Burrow, drawing. She was drawing Harry, and he was smiling, but she couldn't get the expression quite right. Frustrated, she turned the page to try again and found a different sketch of Harry, this one sprawled on the ground with limbs in unnaturally bent positions, his broom by his head and his face blank. The next page wasn't any better, picturing Harry with wide eyes and nostrils distended, two jagged puncture marks above his collarbone. Every page held a variation, some where the method of death wasn't obvious, others as clear and chilling as the snake bite.

Another time she dreamed of a fire, watched it lick at the boots of the corpse whose eyes were Avada Kedavra vacant, and stood frozen, unable to move until the stench of burning hair and flesh choked her into awakening.

Often, when she did have the power to turn away from whatever ghastly sight she was presented with, she would find Tom, sometimes smug and other times concerned and caring. She tried telling herself that the latter was a lie, but when the horror was too much she would give in and let him hold her and stroke her hair, soaking the front of his robes with her tears.

By mid-October, she'd begun asking the nurse for regular doses of dreamless sleep potion, and then her dreams disappeared altogether.

8

Draco folded the letter, placing it nonchalantly in his bag, and sat back in the arm chair, mentally reviewing what he'd just read. It was signed by Braxton Avery, an _acquaintance_ of his father's. Upon first perusal, the letter was informing him that his mother had gone to stay with the Avery's while the Malfoy family continued to experience difficulties, and extended a courteous invitation to spend Christmas with them. In reality, it was telling him that he was expected to attend Christmas because, with his father in Azkaban, the Dark Lord was looking to Draco to replace him, and he'd no doubt have to take the Mark. His mother was there to ensure that he would follow through, though likely not by her choosing.

Wishing fervently for a snifter of brandy, Draco took a deep breath and let his head rest against the back of the chair. Although he didn't object, necessarily, to the indiscriminate slaughter of Muggles and Muggleborns, he'd seen the pain that his father went through every time the Dark Lord called him through the Mark, or returned from a meeting with the Cruciatus shakes, and that didn't appeal. Draco didn't _like_ pain.

Severus had once told him that the pain of being branded with the Dark Mark rivaled that of the Cruciatus Curse, and hypothesized that it was perhaps a contributing factor to the number of Death Eaters who were a few Shrivelfigs short of a potion. Needless to say, nothing about that scenario had him anxious for the experience. That those who withstood the Mark intact could consider themselves stronger in any way from the others was not reason enough for Draco. He was a Slytherin, not a Gryffindor. He had very little interest in proving himself hardier than his peers at the possible expense of his sanity.

Which left him with rather a conundrum.

"Draky," came Pansy's voice from behind the chair. She slid onto the armrest and began to fiddle with a lock of hair that had fallen into his eyes. This had always irked him, but as he unconsciously noted the expanse of smooth leg revealed by her position beside him, he found he didn't have the energy to object.

"What is it, Pansy?" he mustered.

"Why are you over here brooding? Blaise and Millie have a good game of Exploding Snap going; we could join in."

"Not today."

At this reply, she removed her hands from his hair and wriggled off the arm of the chair and into his lap. He automatically wrapped a loose arm around her waist and forced himself to meet her wide blue gaze.

"Draco, what's wrong? Is it something to do with the letter you got at breakfast today?"

Draco's eyebrows rose of their own accord. Sometimes Pansy surprised him with how perceptive she was.

"Are we not going to be able to go to France for my birthday?"

And sometimes not. Was that honestly the most dire news she could come up with?

"No, Pansy. It seems that Mother has gone to stay with the Avery's for a while. With my father away, I would imagine she's been rather lonely. I'm just sorry that I haven't been a better correspondent."

"Oh, you're such a gentleman! Always looking after your mother--Draco, when we're older, will you look after me that way?"

"Yes, Pansy. As much as it is within my capability to do so." That hadn't been what he was implying, but let her think what she would. Like his mother, Pansy wasn't terribly quick, and cared for little that didn't directly involve her. Not the most admirable qualities, perhaps, but not out of place in a high-born arranged marriage. She was tolerable--more so with each passing year--eventually he may even enjoy being married to her. Even as he placated her, however, he wondered what the next year would be like, never mind the next fifty.

She looked pleased for a moment, then her eyes widened in horror. "But Draky, if your mother's away at Christmas, does that mean that there won't be a ball at Malfoy Manor?"

"That's right," he said, feeling his patience stretch thin. "I'm expected at the Avery House for Christmas."

"But Draco, I had just the perfect gown to wear!" Her face was scrunched in a pout, her ears going pink with emotion, as they usually did when she was either extremely happy or extremely upset. "Tell them that you have to go home for Christmas! They'd be terribly rude to refuse."

"Pansy," he ground out, tightening his arm around her, tired of his evasion and her frivolous objections, "the Avery's are not the only ones who will wish to see me over the holidays. The Dark Lord is recruiting, always."

Pansy's glare receded, and her eyes widened, followed by her mouth opening and a small "Oh" escaping. "But," she asked, recovering, "couldn't He see you if you were staying at the Manor?"

Draco pursed his lips. "He could, but my family's credibility has suffered since my father's failure."

Pansy's eyes left his and stared unfocused into space with her eyebrows drawn, as they always did when she was thinking particularly hard.

"Draco, does your mother _want_ to be at the Avery House?"

Finally, he thought. He had reservations about telling her this much, but the alternative would soon become infuriating.

"I doubt it," he replied dryly.

"Oh." Pansy sought his eyes again. He felt some of his ire leak away when he saw the genuine concern in her gaze. "Do you _want_ to see the Dark Lord?"

Draco searched her face for any sign of deception but could find none. He sighed. "I don't know if anyone _wants_ to see the Dark Lord, Pans."

For a few moments she stared hard into his eyes, a resolute look on her face. Then she said, "It's going to be all right."

Draco felt a smile stretch his lips, almost against his will, accompanied by a surge of affection for the small girl. He knew she could make no such promises, and didn't really know if she truly understood his situation, but she cared enough to try and comfort him anyway. He pulled her against his chest until she was curled under his chin and held her tightly, glad, for once, that he was not alone.

8

Ginny stumbled down the dark, familiar tunnel, her hand on the wall for balance. The light was only two hundred or so yards ahead of her, and in what seemed like no time at all she was blinking her eyes to let them adjust to the sudden illumination.

In front of her was a wooden door with a large brass doorknob and beside it, a woman sitting on a large, purple, levitating cushion. Yes, the situation was all too familiar.

"What am I doing here?" she asked in confusion. The last thing she remembered was sitting in her Guises class while two of her classmates read their parts from a poem about the harvest. She was reasonably certain that there was nothing potentially fatal in the situation, so why was she staring down Death's door while Fate fixed her with a bemused look?

"Er, I'm not sure. You're not the one I was expecting." The woman gave her cushion a pat and it floated over to Ginny. Ginny frowned.

"What do you mean you don't know why I'm here? Aren't you supposed to know all possible--" Fate plucked a hair from Ginny's head. "Ouch! What was that for!"

The woman plucked a monocle out of the folds of her clothing and examined the hair. Then she licked it, wrinkling her nose in thought.

"Ah ha..." At last she turned her attention to Ginny. "I see what's happened. That's strange. The balance must have been fine indeed. Don't worry," she said at Ginny's glare, "you're not dead."

"Oh, what a relief," Ginny growled sarcastically. She'd spent ages with Fate while Tom and Harry had battled it out in the Chamber, and it appeared that the woman was as indecipherable as ever. Or as she would always be. Time was a bit whimsical in the place between worlds. "Then could you explain what I'm doing here? I have a poem to present any minute now, and if I wait much longer my headache might get bad enough to affect my grade--or at least the Middle English accent I've been trying to perfect."

"Ah, your headaches, of course. You really need to do something about those. Rather deleterious, lightning." Fate smiled and Ginny frowned, something occurring to her suddenly.

"Wait a moment. Back when I was hit by lightning, why didn't I come here? I was definitely dead... kind of, wasn't I?" Damn, she had intended to sound more confident about that pronouncement. She wasn't sure, of course, but Harry had certainly thought her dead.

"You were here, but we made sure you wouldn't remember it. Not yet, anyway. A little kiss from Time, and you were out like a light. Too bad, really, I could have used the company; Time never sticks around long, him and his stupid card games..." she gesticulated vaguely as she trailed off.

"So..." Ginny said, thinking, "I'm here because of the lightning?"

"Indirectly. Mostly you just need to keep better tabs on your consciousness."

"I, what? Listen, I've been having terrible dreams... and hearing _crying_. Is there somebody here who can--"

But at that moment somebody rushed past her, and a flick of hair stung her eyes as a voice gasped out, "Fate! Help me-- it's-- Harry, he's-- dead and-- so stupid!-- fell-- flying-- and if he's dead then-- Vol-- Voldemort's won! Please-- won't you take-- take--" And then there was a moment of silence, the girl still breathing heavily.

Ginny's eyes watered from the whip of hair and she struggled to make out the figure whose hair was so painful. She didn't recognize the voice, but if the girl was talking about Harry and Voldemort, it must be someone she knew. Furiously wiping away her tears, her vision gradually began to clear. A few more blinks and the girl slid into focus. Ginny blinked again.

"What on earth am _I_ doing here?!" The other Ginny asked.

"Ah... right... damn. Time!"

"How is this even possible?!" The other Ginny demanded while a mauve beaded curtain appeared in the air next to Fate's cushion and a tall man in a pink feather boa stepped out.

"You rang?" He said primly, placing one hand on a hip and clasping a large handbag with the other.

"I-- gah!" And Fate gestured emphatically between Ginny and the girl who was not Ginny, or not the Ginny that Ginny was.

His eyes widened slightly as he took in the two girls, his lips coming together in a perfect 'o'. "Oops," he said.

"Oops," Fate reiterated, "oops?! This is _your_ job! _You're_ supposed to keep things like this from happening!"

"Yes, well, I was distracted," he bit out sharply, "besides, it could be worse, they've both been here before."

"Exactly, and do you remember what happened the last time they were here? You might, but they have no idea. When was the last time we screwed up this monumentally? When Nostradamus told himself the world was going to end? I don't know how I got shackled with irresponsible, flibbertigibbet like you, you insufferable fruitcake! Where's Ned? Ned!"

But whoever Ned was, Ginny never knew, because at that moment she sneezed and opened her eyes to see Thomas James regarding her with raised eyebrows.

"Bless you," he said seriously.

As the force of the sneeze wore off, the pressure began once again behind her eyes. Good of Fate to tell her she ought to get rid of her headaches, but bloody useless unless she actually knew how to do so. The school's nurse assured her that it was probably just the stress of being in a new school. Ginny hadn't told her about hearing things. Firmly ignoring the headache, she glared at him with all of the frustration and ire she was feeling, both at his impassivity, her chronic headaches, and the almost but not quite inaudible sniffling in her ear.

"What?"

His eyebrows rose a little higher. "Bless you? It's for luck so your soul doesn't fly our of your body when you... er, nevermind, Muggle saying."

He looked away awkwardly, and Ginny felt a bizarre vindication in seeing him display an emotion besides apathy or slight confusion. She was also rather surprised at such a verbose reply. That had to be the most words he'd said to her since they met at the Inglenook. He surprised her further still when he glanced her way and gestured with his head towards the front of the class.

"It's, er, your turn to read. The Loommaker's Apprentice, fourth verse," he mumbled, and Ginny suddenly realized that the entire class had gone silent and most had turned around in their seats to look at her. She felt her face flush, and pushed herself out of the desk to make her way to the front. When she looked back at Thomas, however, his face was turned obstinately into his parchment.

8

"And what is the result when we invert the product of Sauvage's Equation and Van Vliet's Third Law of Transcription? Miss Granger? Miss Granger!"

Luna frowned as Hermione jolted awake, the arm that had been serving as a pillow knocking over a pile of books that had previously sat taller than the girl herself.

"Yes!" Hermione exclaimed, looking bewildered. There were a few twitters around the class as the Know-It-All rubbed sleep from her eyes. "I'm sorry, Professor, could you repeat the question?"

Professor Vector was frowning, but not unkindly. "Miss Granger, why did you bother to attend class today when you're clearly too tired to stay awake, never mind learn anything?"

"I'm so sorry, Professor, I was in the library, it won't happen ag--"

"Yes, yes, just see me after class. Right now, please outline the inversion of the product of Sauvage's Equation and Van Vliet's Third Law of Transcription."

As Hermione began a lengthy explanation of the algorithm, Luna observed her classmate. All four houses had Arithmancy together, though the largest house representation was easily Ravenclaw, with Hermione, Susan Bones, and Daphne Greengrass and Blaise Zabini representing the other three. Being the only Gryffindor had never seemed to bother the girl, but in this situation, she could probably use a little support. Luna muttered a spell, and the texts that had fallen to the floor rose and piled themselves neatly again on the corner of the desk. To her credit, Hermione stopped speaking for only a moment to look around, surprised, at the occurrence.

The reason for her fatigue, Luna knew, was her ongoing research on Harry's condition. The Hogwarts library was extensive, but Hermione and Ronald had already read its entire collection on magical exhaustion, magical comas, magic's differing representation between wizards, and had just recently begun to look into Legilimency. This, in addition to keeping up with, and in Hermione's case, ahead of her classes, was taking its toll.

In the library, Luna watched and, occasionally, listened from her own table a few aisles over, and also knew that the two of them were having very little luck in their research. Both Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey, Hermione had said, seemed to think that there was nothing else to be done for Harry and that at this point they could only wait and let Harry recover in his own time. To Harry's friends, this was inadequate, and so they drove themselves still harder.

Luna found it interesting that Dumbledore was so ready to give up on Harry's condition. The-Boy-Who-Lived surely warranted a greater effort than the handful of days' study he'd received. That Madam Pomfrey was not fighting his apparent apathy tooth and nail was also intriguing. She'd never known the Hogwarts Matron to be anything less than fearsome when it came to the health of her patients, and allowing Harry to remain in the Hospital Wing without any idea when he would awaken was uncharacteristic. There was clearly information that she didn't have regarding Harry's coma.

Lending but half an ear to Professor Vector's lecture, Luna began to think and to plan.

8

Eventually, as the snow started to fall, Ginny decided she'd had enough. She followed Thomas James after a particularly frustrating Guises class, and, as he passed one of the darkened exits from their tunnel, pulled him into it.

She was a little surprised when she subsequently found her back pressed against the stone, his arm across her shoulders and a wand pressed to her throat.

"What are you doing?!" he hissed, and Ginny felt herself flush, angry at his reaction and at the whimpering going on behind her left ear, but put at a disadvantage by their position and unable to do much about it.

"I wanted to talk to you, you git! You ignore me so thoroughly in all our classes; I wasn't sure if you'd just refuse to talk to me if I tried to get you to stop in the main hall!"

His grip and wand placement didn't relent. "Who are you?"

"Ginny Weasley, as you might know if you'd bothered to talk to or even look at me in the last two months!"

"What's your full name?"

"What? Why on earth would that matter, you--" but he pressed his wand closer to her skin. "Ginevra. Ginevra Molly Weasley, you absolute arse. I can't believe I was going to ask you for help!"

The pressure of his wand point lessened slightly and he asked, "Yesterday, when you crashed into me during Jo'Ouqye practice, what did you say before you apologised?"

"'Merlin's purple knickers', what's _with_ you?" Ginny felt her anger fade into exasperation.

She felt him remove his arm and his wand, until the only way she could tell he was still there was by the sound and feel of his breath a few inches from her face. Now that he was no longer holding her at wandpoint, she felt nervousness ball in her stomach at their proximity. She was tempted to light her wand so they could see each other, but wasn't really sure that she wanted to see how close they were. After a few breaths he spoke.

"My country is at war, though you seem to have conveniently forgotten. People don't usually get dragged into pitch black tunnels for a bit of chit chat."

She felt her anger return. "It's my country as _well_, in case _you've_ forgotten. One of my best friends is in a coma because of that war, and the rest of my family is doing all they can to fight it; what is _your_ family doing?"

When he spoke his tone was unreadable. "I don't have a family. They were killed."

Ginny immediately regretted her harsh words. "Oh. I'm so sorry; I didn't know." She reached out instinctively to lend comfort but when her hand brushed his chest he flinched away. She retracted her hand and pretended nothing had happened.

Eager for a change in subject, she continued, rather subdued, "I, er, wanted to ask for your help, in Jo'Ouqye especially. You're getting so good at it, they're bound to transfer you out of Esphilon soon, and I still can't manage a decent jump-roll. I was kind of hoping you'd give me some pointers." Then, because she felt that she somehow had to justify herself, she blurted, "I know it may sound hard to believe, but I used to be a pretty good student!"

Thomas was silent for a moment and then said, "You're very good at LineComp. Eons ahead of me."

"Yes, but that's just drawing and Arithmancy. I bet you've never taken Arithmancy before, have you?"

"Hn. Not exactly."

"Then that's your major problem. But Guises, Jo'Ouqye, Tactiles... it's just magic. I've always been perfectly adept at anything they gave us to do in Hogwarts. I'm a witch from a family of witches and wizards, but if I can't do magic then I'm just a girl, alone in a strange place in a strange country." Ginny felt tears prick her eyes. She hadn't intended to tell him so much, but the total darkness lent a certain anonymity to the discussion, and she desperately needed to tell someone what she'd begun to fear.

"That's ridiculous," Thomas said, though his voice was gentler than she'd ever heard it, "your family has been magical for generations and generations. You're one of the oldest magical families in wizarding Britain; between the Weasleys and the Prewetts there's not one drop less magic in you than there has been in any or all of your ancestors and relatives. It's just a different way of doing magic than we're used to, and it's difficult, at first."

Ginny strained her eyes to see his face but they were far enough along the tunnel that she couldn't make out anything except a patch of blackness that was slightly blacker than all the black surrounding it.

"How do you know so much about my family?" she asked, a little unnerved by his knowledge and easy enough that her other concerns didn't seem so serious any more.

"Well, you're from a prominent wizarding bloodline," he answered, as though it should have been obvious, "I learned it growing up."

Ginny tried to remember if there was a James family in her experience. None came to mind, and she wondered why he'd been required to learn the bloodlines if he wasn't a pureblood himself.

"So will you help me? Or at least explain how you're so good when you learned magic the same way I did?"

"It's-- Well--" he stammered, sounding for the first time as though he wasn't in control of the conversation. "I had it shown to me. Somebody--Here, sit down with your back straight against the wall."

"What, now?" she exclaimed, surprised by both his willingness and his suggestion that they begin immediately. She noticed, then, that the crying in her ear had stopped. So shocked was she that she almost missed what he said next.

"--to have to find me."

"Sorry, what?"

"You're going to first be looking for my magic. Look, do you want to do this, or not?" He sounded rushed.

"Yes, of course, I'm sorry." She followed his instructions and slid down the wall until she was sitting cross-legged. "Okay, I'm sitting, what now?"

When he spoke next, his voice was at the same level as she, so she guessed he must have sat down as well. "All right, now close your eyes. Make sure to sit tall, but relaxedly. When you're sure you're relaxed, try to feel around you."

"What do you mean, feel?" Ginny was confused but excited that this might help her succeed in Opasquia.

"Just, kind of try to see without your eyes. It's like a bit of hearing and touching and such, all at once."

"All right..." She was skeptical of his advice, but followed the directions all the same. Eyes closed, she listened to his shallow breath and to the distant sound of footsteps in the hallway they'd left behind. Her skin prickled, knowing that despite the darkness, Thomas was likely staring intently at her. It was the otherly sense that told of being watched without knowing by who, even though, in this case, she did, or of ducking instinctively through a doorway without having to check the top beam's proximity to one's head. A body sense.

She sat up straighter, feeling the air move around her and imagining the she could feel the slight disturbance Thomas would make in its path. The stone was cool, but she was warm, and she knew that he would be the other island of warmth in this forbidding corridor. She found herself still unsettled that he'd actually agreed to help her. It hadn't been at all the reaction she'd expected after his nearly two month stint of silence. She found that after so long of being ignored by those she'd considered friends, and by the boy in front of her who she felt close to for their shared country of origin, that this expression of kindness made her homesick like she hadn't been since Pascale's. She yearned for the people whose love and kindness were unconditional and frequently given. In lieu of her friends and family, however, at the moment she felt herself warming considerably to the otherwise-taciturn Tom.

With the body sense that was still stretching tendrils around her, Ginny reached out to where she knew Thomas to be sitting. He'd jumped away from her touch earlier, but he couldn't entirely escape the reach of her affection and appreciation.

She felt the sense stretching, expanding out in all directions, though she was only interested in one. Ginny found the exercise aggravated the ache that had, until then, been mostly dormant in the back of her head. Still, she was nothing if not stubborn, and reached just a bit more.

Then, there was something there. A glimmering. Ginny was surprised that she could, at once, see the glow, feel its warmth, and hear a strange, soft keening, all associated with the glimmer of what she could only assume was magic.

"Amazing..." she murmured. Once her tendrils had found it, they seemed drawn to it, uncoiling and wrapping themselves around the tender light. The act was undeniably intimate, and she felt him stiffen across from her, and then the light was gone and her headache there in fury.

"Right," Thomas said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. "Right. Well done. That's the objective in Jo'Ouqye. You'll see when we watch the first match in a few weeks. It's all in the dark, like this, and players use this to find one another, and then all the techniques we've been learning to steal their rings. Spells, however, are rather different. The people here, they don't really know how to explain it. The idea of not knowing is as foreign as the idea _of_ knowing to us. Whereas you just sought out the centre of _my _magic, now you've got to find the centre of _yours_."

"How do I do that?" Ginny asked in a whisper around the pounding of her head.

"I honestly don't know. The way I found mine was definitely unorthodox, so... You're on your own. Er, good luck." And she heard his shoes scrape on the rough stone floor and then footsteps as he left her there in the dark.

8

_A/N: I guess my aim of 5k chapters is shot to shit, eh? Well, since it's so long, and quite a few things _do_ happen, how about you leave a review? I got two last chapter, could we make it three this time? The desire to know what people love/hate about my story burns like the sun of Arrakis, or the fires of Mount Doom. Seriously. I'm getting crispy._


	17. A Feather on the Scales

_Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end._

_Anonymous_

8

Ginny was in Opasquia's entryway. More accurately, perhaps, she was above Opasquia's entry. Her Cleansweep, while not the most glamourous of brooms, was cool and familiar between her legs, and she was shooting in a perfect vertical towards the top. It had been so long since she'd flown; she was aching to get into the open air. Several hundred feet high, it took her only a couple of breaths to reach the peak, slowing slightly to land on the ledge of one of the skylights built into the mountain. Here, however, she paused. Thankful, now, for her visit with Charles, she could recognize the atmosphere up here, amid the sunlight and shimmering particles of dust. It was like a cathedral. All the mundane sounds of school and students shuffling between classes and the occasional shout of laughter or revenge were gone, and even the constant raging of her head had receded, blessedly, into nothing more than a whimper.

She took a step forward, and the illusion of there being nothing but sunlight beyond the warded window disappeared: she was presented with a breathtaking vista of forest and snow-covered mountains. She cast several warming charms on herself and took a final step, balancing on the very edge, broomstick in hand, before the air rushed up to meet her. The wind whipped her face and buffeted her lungs, and Ginny would have laughed if she hadn't been so close to crying.

Aligning her body with her broom, she threw a leg over its handle and gradually slowed her descent. She angled her broom through a sparse copse of trees on the side of the mountain and felt sharp chips of snow on the trees' icy needles melt as they pricked her cheeks. A few branches tried to get a purchase in her hair, despite it being pulled back into two severe plaits, but compared to the pain her head gave her every day, it was minimal.

Her headache, so docile in the mountain cathedral, was back at a dull roar, and Ginny pushed her broom faster, as if she could outfly the pain. She flew over a sparkling stream that cut between Opasquia's mountain and its neighbour, and crested the tip of the snow-capped peak, letting the toes of her boots pick up snow. The evergreen forest below her was immense, looking, from this height, like a thick carpet of the deepest green. Its blanket of the surrounding area gave it a surprising lushness, and she wished that she'd come out flying when all the other greenness hadn't been covered by snow. She rolled, letting her neck muscles relax and her head loll upside down. Her pace slowed, and she opened her eyes. The mountain range spread out beneath her like a fairy-tale kingdom of snow-castles and damsels who had someone to rescue them from their distress. She felt tears gather in her eyes. When they fell, they glistened for a moment in the blinding sunlight, and then disappeared hundreds of feet below.

The combination of headaches, nightmares, dreamless sleep, auditory hallucinations, difficulty in her classes, cold shoulders from her Cathedrillian friends, impassivity from Thomas James, his subsequent 'help' and then cryptic advice were too much. She felt like there was a terrible weight resting just behind her eyes, and nothing she did would ease the pain and burden. She'd been a little optimistic, after Thomas' help the other day, that he would begin to speak to--or even just acknowledge--her, but while his demeanor hadn't been as cool, there'd been no greeting or any type of conversation forthcoming.

And she still hadn't located her own 'centre of magic', if what the British boy had told her could be believed. She'd tried, sitting in that hallway, thinking that if she could only trace the tendrils back to their source, then that ought to lead her to a centre of sorts. Instead, her tendrils reappeared thin and almost sickly, and she was utterly unable to maintain them long enough to find their origin. She'd returned to her dorm frustrated and confused, and now, almost a week later, she was no more enlightened and almost at the end of her rope.

After a few more loops around the mountain range, Ginny's warming charms had begun to lose their vigor, and so she headed back for the sky-light entrance. She dismounted, landing gracefully on the ledge, and wiped her eyes of the tears that had frozen in place. The crying that had mostly been drowned out by the wind outside, returned, and she had to bite her lip to keep from sobbing sympathetically. Morosely, she sat side-straddle on her broom, and wafted down to the entrance hall. She didn't bother activating the ribbon, no longer needing any guidance to get to the Osprey dorm. She barely even noticed where her feet were taking her, as she conjured up happy memories from home--tinged only slightly with worry and grief about Harry, still unconscious.

She'd succeeded so thoroughly in distracting herself that she didn't notice another person in the corridor until she almost walked into him. "Sorry," she apologized automatically, moving to side-step the boy, but stopped when she noticed his Slytherin crest, which was level with her eyes as they had been trained on the ground. Belatedly, she looked up into his face.

Taking a step backwards, Ginny considered running. It wasn't Thomas James who stood before her, it was Tom, but he was smiling at her as he used to before he became cruel. Perhaps being around Thomas James had desensitized her, or perhaps she'd become genuinely insane, because the urge to run wasn't nearly as strong as the urge to rush into his arms. He would comfort her; he always had.

When he reached out a hand to her, she took it, grasping as if it were a lifeline. What's wrong Ginny? He said, although his voice didn't sound the same. It was deeper in pitch, and if she hadn't been so shaken it would have made her pause, but instead she stumbled forward and buried her face in his chest. Shh, don't cry, what's troubling you? And she felt his other hand smooth her hair. She realized then that she was crying again, her own hurt blending with that of her auditory hallucinations, and her tears were beading on his tie.

"I think I'm going crazy, Tom. I get these headaches, and I hear people crying all the time, and I wake up places that I can't remember going to, just like before! But it's not you this time. I didn't used to hallucinate."

She wiped the tears from the red and gold stripes, and then stopped. "Why are you wearing a Gryffindor tie?" She looked up to his face then, and through circular lenses into emerald eyes.

"Harry! What happened to Tom?" But he frowned. What are you talking about Ginny, Tom Riddle's gone. His diary was destroyed.

She backed away, shaking her head. This was getting out of hand. Hallucinating about Tom was bad enough, but Harry was _nothing_ like Tom. I'm sorry, Harry. I can't control it. I can't control anything. I'm going insane. She dragged a hand across her face to rid it of fallen tears, and now in Harry's place stood Tom, but the Tom from Opasquia.

"What's wrong? Why are you crying?" His voice was gentle, and he was looking at her with a tenderness and concern that she'd never actually seen on the stoic face of the real boy.

"I don't know why I'm even talking to you; I really must be crazy." First she imagined Tom, which was understandable, since he'd been involved the last time she'd been crazy, and Harry was involved, too, if a little more peripherally, but this Tom? She knew nothing about him, certainly not enough to warrant a hallucination. Besides, to an outside observer it probably looked as though she was talking to herself. She pushed past him to continue down the corridor.

"No, wait!" He put out a hand to stop her, but she shook him off.

"Just leave me alone, Tom. Disappear. I don't want to see you."

In her dismissal, she missed his sudden compliance, and the calculating look her words had brought to his face.

8

"Hermione, no. We are not going to the library tonight."

She blinked. "What?" Surely she hadn't just heard Ron say that.

"You're exhausted. I'm exhausted. This isn't healthy. It isn't going to do Harry any good if we work ourselves to death. We've got an essay to write in Charms tomorrow, and even you're going to have trouble if you don't catch up on some sleep. I mean, Merlin's beard, Hermione, you fell asleep in Arithmancy last week, and it's your favourite class!" Ron stood square in front of her, his arms folded, clearly denying her passage. She wanted to hit him.

"Fine, then _you _go sleep, Ron, but I'm going to the library whether or not you come with me because my friend has been in the hospital wing for more than a month, and no one else is arsed enough to find out why!" She hefted _The Encyclopedia of Mental Magics_ and tried to shoulder her way past him. Unfortunately he had almost a foot and many stones on her and he budged not an inch.

"No." He unfolded his arms and tried to grasp her shoulders but she wriggled away.

"I don't need your help, Ron. I'll read all about Legilimency on my own. It's a real step, you know. If we could get into Harry's mind, we might know what's actually causing his coma!" There was no way she was giving up now. The library always yielded answers eventually.

"Hermione," Ron spoke, irritatingly calm. Why was he trying to stop their research? She knew he wanted Harry better as much as she did.

"No, Ron! This is _important_! We have no idea how damaging it could be to Harry's magic or his mind, being unconscious all this time! Do you _want_ him to wake up a squib?"

Ron frowned and crossed his arms again. "Don't be thick. I care about Harry more than anything, but Vector was right in telling you to take it easy. You're wasting away! Mum would have kittens if she saw you like this!"

"I don't give a damn about what Professor Vector or your Mum thinks. Snape could put on an apron and start prescribing tonic and I'd still go to the library every night! There's nothing else we can do, Ron!"

"Well we can't bloody well do it if you're too sick to hold a book!" He was flushed now, his anger finally breaking through his limited rationality, as she'd known it would. He reached forward and yanked _Mental Magics_ out of her hands. "This weighs less than _Quidditch Through the Ages_, Hermione! How many Featherlight spells did you have to cast on it before you could carry it without exhausting yourself? Don't you see the irony in this situation?"

"Sod off, Ron," Hermione bit out, cutting her losses and trying once again to skirt around him. It was in no way ironic. Ron probably didn't even know what ironic meant. Harry had been fighting Death Eaters; she was fighting for information. Both were bound to have their consequences.

"Sod off? Are you kidding? Hermione 'Language, Ron!' Granger is telling me to sod off. Well that's a bit rich. Next Malfoy's sure to invite me over to the Snakes' common room for a game of gobstones."

Hermione could feel her face, hot and angry, and knew she would regret what she was about to say, but was too tired and angry to care. "Just leave me alone. What I choose to do with my time is none of your business. I care more about Harry than beauty sleep, Ron; I'd have thought you'd feel the same, but I'm not entirely surprised. You've always been the one to give up on him when he's needed us most. Have a good night." She bit out the last sentence caustically, and managed, at last, to push her way past him. He let her go.

As she walked quickly away, she heard him say, so quietly he wasn't even saying it to her, "Fine. Just fine."

8

Ginny was angry. Furious. She was angry at Tom, and Harry, and her own personal choir of mourners, and told herself that, crazy or not, she was not going to take it sitting down. Weasleys were nothing if not stubborn, and she was resolved not to go gently into insanity.

She'd discovered a couple of tricks where her body-sense was concerned, and, although it was nowhere near as easy as it had been that first night, it had improved marginally. She'd noticed a slight change in her abilities in Jo'Ouqye, and it had prompted her to continue her attempts to locate her own centre of magic. She hadn't been terribly successful on that front, but she did feel as though she was at least a little bit closer than she'd been before.

It was in this optimistic frame of mind that she began her preparations for the Hallowe'en Masquerade that she had hitherto been ignoring. Formerly Charles, and now Alice, had both tried to impress the magnitude of the occasion, and Ginny was determined to place her best foot forward and present a well-thought out and well-made costume. She'd inferred from Alice's enthusiasm that the Masquerade was truly the event of the year, and so Ginny ignored headaches, and hallucinations that alternately channeled Moaning Myrtle and the mini-Dark Lord, and started to plan.

It was a little less than a week away, and Alice was slightly scandalized that Ginny hadn't begun sooner, since elder girl had already made her mask and bought a dress. She subtly informed Ginny that the Masque was much more than a simple masquerade, but wouldn't let on exactly which changes would be expected beyond this. Given the kinds of things they learned in Guises, though, Ginny could guess what the standard of excellence would be.

She hadn't, however, any kind of outfit that would be appropriate for the occasion. It wasn't until her LineComp professor assigned them a bowler hat as their daily assignment that a questionably simple way to acquire her dress occurred to her. Garments could be made with her MAN. As long as she was cautious about tweaking the algorithm into permanence, she'd have a perfectly serviceable solution.

This pleased her so much that not even Thomas James' strange behaviour could dampen her mood. Instead of ignoring her, he'd now taken to watching her like a hawk, and she turned multiple times during classes to find his eyes on her. Her happiness and distraction with a pleasantly girlish and frivolous pursuit, however, overshadowed his creepifying new fascination, and she threw herself into design.

It took her four days to tweak the outfit to her satisfaction, and another two to find the incantations and intentions necessary for her transformations, and in that time she was delighted to find that her headaches receded somewhat, and the crying became only sporadic. She didn't know what had brought about the change, but it helped buoy her mood enough that even quiet Alice questioned her newfound high spirits.

When the eve of November arrived, Ginny's head was pain free, she had the perfect dress to fit the perfect ensemble, and she knew with absolute certainty that nothing was going to spoil her evening.

8

When he heard the door to Greenhouse Six click open, Neville looked up from his pruning, and was surprised to see Frank standing there. She gave him a nervous smile and a small wave.

Genuinely pleased to see her, Neville grinned broadly and beckoned her over. He wiped his hands on his apron, then grasped one of hers between them in greeting.

"Frank! It's good to see you, how have you been?"

Frank looked a little taken aback, but laughed somewhat nervously and said, "Oh, not too bad... you?"

"I'm doing all right. Going a bit stir crazy, actually. I feel a bit helpless, stuck in classes every day, y'know? Did Harry ever tell you about the DA?"

She reached up to fiddle with one of her braids, saying, "Um, he might have mentioned it. Something like a Defense Against the Dark Arts club, eh?"

"Yeah, something like that. I don't know how much good it actually did, but it sure _felt_ good to be doing something."

"So why don't you get it going again?" Frank asked, curiously, shuffling over to sit on one of the class benches. Neville joined her.

"Well, Harry's in the Hospital Wing, isn't he?"

"You can't start it up without Harry?"

"No; he's the leader. There's no one else who knows enough about fighting Dark wizards to teach us how to defend ourselves. And likely no one else who people would take direction from. I just hope he wakes up soon!" he said with a laugh.

Frank looked unsettled.

"Well, even if it's not very likely that we'll ever get to fight Dark wizards ourselves," Neville amended, though their gained skills had certainly been useful at the Department of Mysteries. Still, Frank wasn't used to the idea of fighting an oppressing evil.

"Right." She frowned. "No. I mean, if you really wanted to--if it's really important--couldn't you teach yourselves? Or, maybe, teach each other? I bet each of your members has a skill that the others don't. You could share your expertise."

Neville lifted his eyebrows in surprise. "You think? I hadn't looked at it like that." There were certainly things that he could learn from Luna, Hermione, and even Ron, who was the undefeated chess champion of the common room. "Though I don't know if that would work unless we had someone to lead us. You know, like Dumbledore leads the Order."

After her son's and daughter-in-law's exposure to the Cruciatus, Augusta Longbottom had kept only very peripheral ties with the Order of the Phoenix. Gran used to occasionally grumble about the Headmaster while perusing _The Prophet_, but he hadn't realized that his parents had been members until this past summer, after the Disaster. Dumbledore had come to the funeral, to Neville's surprise, since he had only one recollection of the man ever actually speaking with his grandmother. He remembered going to Dumbledore's birthday when he'd been about five, but except for the stomachache he'd had after eating too many sweets at the party, it had been unremarkable. Now that he knew, however, he was determined to follow in his parents' footsteps, and join the Order the moment he turned seventeen. Which unfortunately wasn't until next July.

"But what if Harry doesn't wake up?" Frank said quietly, looking intently at the "S+K" engraved inside a heart on the benchtop.

Neville frowned. "Of course Harry's going to wake up." His lips quirked at the ridiculousness of the suggestion. "He's _Harry_, Frank. I know you haven't been here, but he's gotten into much worse than this before and come through right as rain. It's just taking a little longer this time.

"I mean, this entire war is practically _for_ him. It's not entirely rubbish when _The Prophet_ calls him The Golden Boy. He fights Voldemort. It seems strange to even _think_ about Voldemort being around if Harry wasn't. He's going to beat him one day, I just know it."

He didn't understand why Frank still looked so apprehensive, but reached across to touch her shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring way. They would win this war, he felt with conviction, because there was no alternative.

They were silent for a long moment, until Frank murmured, "I had a fight with Millicent Bulstrode about Harry."

Neville, recognizing that, at the moment, she probably just needed an objective ear, remained silent.

"Some--some of the Slytherins say the most awful things about the Gryffindors... Harry in particular. And I know that you're not the most charitable to them--us--but shouldn't there be something sacred about the friends of a boy who's spent the last two months unconscious in the Hospital Wing? It doesn't seem to matter that they might be hurting...

"I asked the girls how they would feel if it were Daphne or somebody in Harry's position, but they just didn't _get_ it! We're all human! Isn't that enough?!" Frank's eyes flashed with anger and confusion, and she pressed her hands to the bench between them, her nails white.

"Frank..." Neville chose his words carefully. "There isn't a lot of... empathy for Gryffindors in Slytherin House, and vice versa. We've said and done some horrible things to each other, and it's a feud that started long before we came to school."

"That doesn't make it okay, Neville!"

"No, no, I know it doesn't. But that doesn't change the facts."

"In that case Hogwarts is no better than the rest of Wizarding Britain. You hate each other for bloodlines, and pride, and arbitrary reasons you can't even remember! Well, the macrocosm is at war; what's going to happen to us? You say you want to fight the Death Eaters, but that's not the same thing as the Slytherins. We're still students. Will you get into a fight with Draco during potions tomorrow, will Millie curse Hermione into the Hospital Wing? It's just so _silly_!" She bit her lip, then, as if unsure how to proceed.

Neville was frowning, remembering the times he _had_ gotten into fights with Malfoy. It wasn't as if he'd done so unprovoked. And it hadn't been silly. Every time it had been Malfoy's fault, for insulting his classmates, or him, or for his total disregard for human decency.

Frank's remark hung heavy in the air, but she bit her lip, as if unwilling to take it back. The silence stretched awkwardly between them.

"It's not as simple as you think it is," Neville said at last, drumming his fingers agitatedly on the work bench.

Frank pursed her lips and ran a hand down one of her plaits, sighing heavily. "Well, it should be." She looked Neville in the eyes, and he could see the conflict and desperation that was making her so upset. This was important to her. "It should be," she repeated.

8

Ron was sitting, his posture rigid and his forehead wrinkled in frustration, when Hermione entered the otherwise-empty common room later that evening. She hadn't been able to concentrate on her research, so engaged was she in replaying their argument in her head. As her self-loathing grew, so did her sense of helplessness, until it was all she could do to keep from covering her face with her hands and bawling. As it was, she closed her books, returned them woodenly to the shelves, and shuffled back to Gryffindor Tower.

When she saw him there, in front of the fire, idly flicking ripped up pieces of parchment into the flames with his wand, the other hand dug into his hair as he leaned it against the arm of the couch, her feet acted entirely of their own accord, and the next thing she knew, she was crawling into his lap and burying her face in his shoulder, too ashamed to look at him.

He tensed, initially, but soon put down his wand with a sharp _clack_ on the table beside the couch, and wrapped his arms around her trembling frame, shifting it until she was curled comfortably against him. When she felt his arms close around her, Hermione couldn't restrain the small sob that escaped her.

"I'm so sorry, Ron," she mumbled into the scratchy wool of his jumper. "I didn't mean any of it. You were right. I'm sorry for yelling at you." She paused, sniffling just the slightest, and then voiced the other regret that had been plaguing her. "And for swearing at you."

She started in surprise when he chuckled, meeting his eyes for the first time since she'd entered the room. He didn't look angry with her. He didn't even look insulted. He did look a little sad.

"The terrible Hermione Granger: intimidator of Slytherins, triumphant above Ravenclaws, and more considerate than all the Hufflepuffs combined--but her conscience can't handle a few angry curse words to her deserving boyfriend."

Hermione's lips thinned, partly in guilt, and partly in amusement. "You didn't deserve that, Ron."

"No? You would say that. You've also got more guilt than a blood traitor. I know how important this is to you, Hermione, and how much it's been bothering you that the library hasn't given us any answers."

"No, Ron, you were right. I'm not well. I--I take a Pepper-up almost every morning, and I'm still tired all the time. My research isn't as efficient or thorough as it should be, and a few Ravenclaws have been pulling ahead of me in Transfiguration and Arithmancy." A few more tears leaked down her cheeks.

"Pish posh, Hermione. You're worth more than any of those brainiacs, and as soon as we start taking better care of you, you'll be back at the top in no time." Ron pulled her back into his embrace, and though she felt that her feminist sensibilities ought to perhaps have been offended by the implication that she couldn't entirely take care of herself, the knowledge that he would was comforting all the same. It was in the arms of someone who loved her and looked out for her health and well-being that she finally fell asleep.

8

That night Frank lay tossing and turning, unable to let go her frustration, and still mulling over her conversation with Neville. There was no reason that the Gryffindor-Slytherin animosity should be any more complicated that it _ought_ to be. Why did people have to hate each other?

She rolled over and out of bed, her hand snagging the book under her pillow as she stood. Sliding into her slippers, she wrapped herself in her cloak to ward off the dungeons' chill, and left her classmates sleeping peacefully.

The fire was low when she entered the common room, so she sat against the still-warm stones of the hearth, and opened M Monteyne's book to her page marker. Despite acquiring _The Magics of Unrecorded History_ over a month ago, she'd only just finished the introduction, having first skimmed the book in its entirety. The first chapter was called, "Magic and Modern Wielder".

_Modern magic is performed by drawing upon one's own magical core. Amplified by a wand and triggered by an incantation, magical feats require little knowledge of magic itself. The next level in the magical hierarchy of fanstasmagoria are spells performed wordlessly, and the level above this is wandlessly. Modern witches and wizards consider the latter to be the pinnacle of achievement, as few even surpass the first level of spell-casting. _

This she had known--intimately, given the eyes and ears that kept tabs on any strange magical happenings at Opasquia. And wandless work above a level two or so in a schoolgirl was definitely strange.

The book went on to describe various wizards who, because of their spell-casting achievements, were considered to be among the more powerful magicians of the time. Frank was not surprised to see that Dumbledore was one of them. The rest were all influential in their own right, either in government, wartime, or, like Dumbledore, in teaching the next generations of spell-casters. One name she noticed was absent, for no reason she could see, was Headmistress Wharry's. Surely the woman who had defended her school against two Dwarf sieges and aided in establishing some of the most powerful casting circles in the Northern hemisphere deserved at least an honourable mention.

_Regardless of its popularity, using one's own magical energy is an inefficient and potentially dangerous method. Indeed, if one's internal stores of magical energy are depleted in their entirety, it would threaten not only one's ability to ever do magic again, but also one's life. _

Well, no one was going to accuse Mr. Naum D. Pleume of being unbiased. Her stomach twisted at the thought of the harm she'd inadvertently caused Harry by siphoning off a power she thought hadn't belonged to him.

_The alternative, though now scorned by the ignorant as being primitive and unrefined, is what is generally termed "Old Magic. The old magics rely strongly upon the element--_

"_Fascinating Facets of Flobberworm Husbandry_-- Salazar, Brooks, what _are_ you reading?"

Frank jumped, the jolt scraping her back uncomfortably against the stone, and her heart racing. Blaise was leaning over her, having just read the cover of her book. Apparently Naum D. Pleume, or whatever enchantment was supposed to guard the secrets of the Old Magics had

found him wanting. Still, she cursed her own stupidity. She could easily have left up a field to warn her about anyone coming into the common room. Instead, she'd been too engrossed in her book, and Blaise had snuck up on her.

"A little bedtime reading," she replied, taking calming breaths. "Is that so surprising?"

"Well, no;" he granted, "given the subject matter, I'd say it's perfect bedtime reading. Couldn't sleep?"

"No," Frank said, closing her book as casually as possible. Zabini seemed to want to chat. "You?"

The shadows on Blaise's face flickered in the dim light of the fire, so that his expression was unreadable. "I--no. Not any more. I spent the summer, two years ago, in Transylvania, and I'm afraid my life, or whatever this is, will never be the same."

He waggled his eyebrows dramatically, the whites of his eyes stark against his darkness, and she rolled hers with a snort. "That must be an awful existence. Tell me, then, do you and Professor Snape exchange pointers on things like proper fang care and how not to get blood on your clothes when you snack?"

"Not Snape, no," Blaise said with mock seriousness. "He doesn't need to worry about that. Everything he owns is black for a reason, you know." Then he grinned, the bright shine of his teeth seeming to split, suddenly, through the dark.

"Well," he said, standing tall and stretching his back until it popped, "I'm going to get to my room."

"For sleeping purposes?" she teased.

"You'll never know, Brooks," he said, making his way to the boys' corridor. "You'll never know."

Frank watched him go, and then tossed her book down in frustration. It made a satisfying _thump!_ on the stone floor. How could she choose? How could she choose between friends--especially when one group was still hurting and the other couldn't see that.

She'd never been in this kind of situation before, and she didn't know how to resolve it. Was it possible _to_ resolve it? Would there ever be a world where the Gryffindors and Slytherins could be friends? A world where Purebloods cherished Muggleborns, and Voldemort couldn't find disciples to follow his twisted doctrine? Or what about a world where the Amendy coexisted with Fielders and she could be herself without worrying that she would be Forgotten?

It was the same world, really. It just didn't exist.

8

Silently, Luna crept into the hospital wing. It was very close to the new moon, and only the dimmest light shone through the ward's white curtains. Still, it was impossible not to see the unmoving lump in the room's only occupied bed. Sidling up to him, Luna stroked Harry's unresponsive hand and frowned.

All of her measurements told her that this was, indeed, Harry Potter. She had to rule out polyjuice, too, since she'd spent much longer than an hour at his bedside with no one arriving to re-administer the potion. Yet all her intuitions told her that this wasn't him, and despite an enduring belief in empirical tests, she'd learned to trust her instincts. She was, after all, a witch. Not everything about magic was verifiable.

But she had one more experiment to run before she'd give up on empiricism entirely. Setting Harry's hand across his chest, Luna sat delicately on the edge of his bed. Placing her hands on either side of his head, she leaned forward until his forehead touched hers. It had taken a bit of research into outdated therapeutic techniques, but she'd finally found an alternative to eye-contact. Focusing her will on their skin-to-skin contact, she whispered "Legilimens".

She'd been studying Occlumency as a hobby since her third year, and more as a tool for organising her own mind than out of any desire to dominate another's. Since the first level of Occlumency training was meditation it had been extremely useful for sorting out her thoughts and keeping the peace in an otherwise chaotic space. She'd never before tried Legilimency on another person, and so by no means considered herself an expert in the area, but Harry was unconscious and unlikely to put up any resistance.

As she sunk through the levels of what should have been dormant awareness, however, she was dismayed by how little resistance she encountered. Something was very wrong. There was absolutely nothing there. Nothing conscious at any rate. No memories, no thoughts, no emotions... what_ exactly_ had happened with Frank that day in the Burrow?

She was about to delve deeper when a cool breeze disturbed the hairs on the back of her neck. Now, either there was a flock of blibbering humdingers playing with the curtain or someone had just opened the window. Breaking her connection with Harry, Luna darted into the shadows and made herself unnoticeable. It wasn't hard, after the five years she'd spent at Hogwarts, to avoid someone's attention if she wished it. It wouldn't help if they were looking for her, of course, but she felt reasonably secure thinking that she wasn't the object of their attention.

Sure enough, the pale curtain slid aside to reveal a black shadow, which stepped off the ledge and into the ward. Their features concealed by a cloth mask, Luna couldn't be certain of the person's gender although they were slight enough of stature so as to be female. The intruder's aura was golden yellow, but bruised in dirty brown splotches, like an over-ripe banana. They padded absolutely silently across the floor to Harry's bed. Flicking their eyes briefly left and right, it was obvious they weren't expecting to see anyone--so they didn't.

Luna stopped breathing as the person raised an arm and the dim moon briefly illuminated a wand of pale wood before a rush of green light exploded from the tip and struck the figure in the bed, bleeding into the duvet before extinguishing. Luna watched as the glowing yellow surrounding the intruder surrendered just a little more to the bruises. The person cast another spell, similar to the one Luna herself had performed only a few weeks ago. The status spell that read Harry's vitals showed no signs of life. In the second it took Luna to process this information, the assassin had dashed out the open window. Luna stayed very still. Her heart was hammering, and she counted slowly in her head until five minutes had passed and she could be reasonably certain the person wouldn't return. She slowly approached Harry's bed.

In the darkness there was no outwardly observable difference in the Harry that had lain there minutes ago and the Harry who lay there now. His aura, which had been swirling a dull grey was now gone, but most people wouldn't notice this. She could feel her mind attempt to break from her precarious control and begin panicking, but she reigned in these unruly thoughts and considered what she had just seen.

She felt sure she'd be able to recognize the person's aura again, but must also remember the obvious features. A dark figure of indeterminate gender, average height, slight of build, with Caucasian colouring and a long wand made of pale wood. She would have to tell someone this potentially identifying information and reasoned that it would likely be Dumbledore. But she hesitated, knowing that if she did, it would be paramount to admitting doubting him and his assurances of what had happened to Harry. How would he react? Would he be cross? Suspicious? Dumbledore was, by necessity, an ally of the Light, but that in itself was not sufficient for trustworthiness.

She regarded the body in the bed before her but could not muster up emotions of sadness. Concern, yes. Luna was concerned that her friend might be dead. But a distressing voice kept whispering that this was not Harry, and since she hadn't managed to prove his identity she was forced to reserve judgment until she had more evidence. Unfortunately if she wanted to remain inconspicuous she knew she mustn't implicate herself in tonight's events. Nothing killed objective observation faster than drawing attention to oneself, and being the only witness to the murder of arguably the most famous person in the Wizarding World, that is exactly what would happen. Giving the body one last frown, Luna turned in the direction of Ravenclaw tower to wait for whatever morning would bring.

8

_A/N: Today is my birthday. My gift to you is many more words than were originally a part of Chapter Seventeen. Happy Birthday to me. In return, could I ask for a review? I've posted a chapter every week for a while, now, and I think it's a more than fair request. If you're not sure what to write about in the wonderful review you're going to leave me, try outlining what you think is going to happen(I'm terribly curious), or things that you do or don't like. Tell me who your favourite character is, and why, or who you hate, and how I could make you love them. These are all things that I look forward to learning in your lovely birthday review. Cheers._


	18. Turn the Page

_A community is like a ship; everyone ought to be prepared to take the helm._

_Henrik Ibsen_

8

She was a little surprised, the following morning, to find people in the Great Hall going about their business as usual. The supposed savior of the Wizarding World had been murdered less than twelve hours ago, and it was hitherto indifferent. Luna supposed that it was unreasonable to think that Dumbledore would announce it at breakfast, but assuming that the body had been found she thought it a little callous of him to be sitting calmly at the staff table enjoying a chocolate croissant. Whatever sentiment he was trying to express to whichever of the Dark Lord's supporters inhabited the school--for Luna was not naive enough to think there were none--she couldn't begin to divine his motivations. She was missing a large piece of the puzzle and she intended to find out what it was.

When an owl arrived bearing the Headmaster's summons for immediately after breakfast, she looked up with some relief to find similar letters being delivered to Ron and Hermione, Neville, and Frank. So he wanted to tell Harry's friends first. That was fairly reasonable. She allowed a slight smile to cross her face. This would be an ideal opportunity to observe Dumbledore as he relayed the death of his student-- perfect both because it would be in a reasonably close setting and because it would be one of the first times he'd repeated the information, and his reaction would be much more genuine.

Half an hour later, she stepped off the gargoyle's lift with a pleasant, curious expression and took a seat at the end of the row of five chairs that had been placed in front of Dumbledore's desk. From this perspective she could observe the reactions of students and Professor alike. The Headmaster's face was grave and as the other's arrived he neglected to offer anyone a lemon drop. When they were seated he crossed his hands in front of his and began.

"It is with the greatest of sorrow that I must inform you that last night Hogwarts was infiltrated. The wards to the hospital wing were broken and Harry Potter assassinated."

Fighting the urge to roll her eyes at his melodrama, Luna looked to her peers. The students' reactions were predictably diverse, but it wasn't theirs which interested Luna the most. Allowing her own eyes to grow wide with shock, she observed Dumbledore's face, which, though lined with sadness, did not have the look of defeat which she would have expected upon his learning that his prophesied hero had been murdered. If anything, there was a slight tightening at his temples that spoke more of determination and hope than any one of their antitheses. She bit her lip, making sure to maintain the right level of surprise and horror, since she could be certain that Dumbledore was watching them just as surely as she was him. She felt a tear leak out of the corner of her eye. Good, that ought to be appropriately understated.

Looking around at the others, she noticed that Ron and Hermione had had exactly opposite reactions to the news. Hermione's face had lost all colour and her expression frozen into a parody of the polite concern she'd been wearing moments before hearing what Dumbledore had had to say. Ron has gone beet red, and shot to his feet with a groan of mixed anger and anguish. Her heart went out to him; it was a terrible sound.

"Dead? You don't mean--actually dead?"

"I'm afraid so, Mr. Weasley. I'm so sorry." Dumbledore's moustache quivered as he readjusted his spectacles.

Ron was taking nervous steps in all directions and opening and closing his fists as if he needed something to hold on to. Frank had covered her face with her hands, and her wide eyes, staring from behind her fingers, were flicking back and forth between the Headmaster and her peers, but it was Neville who caught Luna's attention.

He, too, was pale, and had two red spots high on his cheekbones, but his expression was one of intense concentration. He ran a hand through his white-streaked hair and then brought it to his chin in a pose that only enhanced his pensive look. She felt her chest swell with pride. The loss of his Gran had deeply shaken him, and she knew that he'd had to seriously evaluate his outlook on life, but not even she had expected such a reserved reaction. Professor Dumbledore also appeared to be noting it with interest.

"I felt it would be appropriate that his closest friends be the first to know, but I will be making a school-wide announcement at supper. There is a staff-meeting shortly to discuss the event, after which Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Snape will be available for advising, if you wish it. I'm... terribly sorry." Hermione was on her feet and out the door before he'd finished his apology. Luna stood, hearing the dismissal in his words. He was undoubtedly sorry, she wouldn't deny him that, but it wasn't out of grief that he offered the apology. No, this was related to her missing puzzle piece, and she was determined to find out what it was.

8

Ginny glided into the Entrance Hall-turned-Ballroom, and felt a deliciously smug smile twist its way onto her face. She knew both that she had made the right decision to use what she'd been learning in Guises to supplement her costume, and that she was completely unrecognizable. It was a heady feeling, the total anonymity, because despite being the new exchange student in Opasquia, she knew that gossip was astonishingly pervasive, and as herself she could do next to nothing without the rest of the school talking about it within an hour or so. As the confident, sultry, well-dressed young woman in deep, emerald green, she could do whatever she pleased.

At the moment it pleased her to smirk at the number of heads that turned as she made her way gracefully into the room. She felt as though she were on a cloud. That the past two, horrible months had been a dream, and she, beautiful, strong, powerful Ginny, was capable of anything. This euphoric elation, after two months of doldrums, was a potent intoxicant.

Moments later, there was a boy at her elbow asking her for a dance. She smiled beatifically, gazing at him from behind her half-mask, noting his off-white robes over a pale green suit, the darker colouring of his skin and deep brown eyes under a flowering mask that covered his entire face. Did she know him? How much of his costume was his real appearance?

She accepted regally, and he swept her into a waltz in the centre of the room, where he navigated them skilfully around a handful of other couples. Underneath her robes, and nearly invisible because of the length of the dress, Ginny had worn the green boots she'd bought in Thirteenth Avenue, and was eternally glad, as he quickened his pace, that she'd thought to wear a sensible heel. She watched a couple of the girls around her in their stiletto sandals and her feet ached in sympathy.

She was interrupted from her musings when another fellow tapped her partner on the shoulder and requested to cut in, and was momentarily regretful for neglecting her previous partner, but was soon distracted by this new boy's appearance.

Black mask, black hair, black robes. Well, he certainly cut an imposing figure. Given that he stood only slightly taller than Ginny in her modest heels, he was probably trying to compensate for his vertical deficiency. Considering what night it was, it likely also meant that he was unable to perform the spells to alter his height. Ginny felt her lips thin into a Hermione-inspired line of disapproval. If she'd managed all the charms for her costume, surely this boy ought to have been capable of improving his stature.

"Your dress is very impressive," he said as he picked up her previous partner's pace. "Did you buy it, make it in Tactiles, or was it extra-cred for LineComp?"

Ginny glanced down to avoid stepping on the hem of her skirt when he quickened their pace, and then back up to his face. From the two and a half inches of chin she could see beneath his mask, she couldn't tell if he was genuinely interested. "Neither, actually. More of a personal project. I didn't know I could get extra credit for it."

The eyes behind his dull mask seemed surprised. "Locke's always been pretty good at awarding extra effort." He glanced around the room. "My sister made herself the gaudiest, most vile pair of shoes last year, and instead of tossing them in the trash, he upped her grade a few percent."

He'd clearly intended that last quip to be funny, so Ginny, feeling magnanimous, awarded him with a polite smile. "I'll have to talk to him, thanks for the advice." Ginny tried to make her gratitude sound final. If he followed that line of questioning, he'd find her ignorant of all sorts of things that a regular Opasquian student would know, and at the moment she cherished her anonymity.

He nodded, and released her long enough for another boy to take his place. Ginny wondered curiously how, first of all, she'd never noticed how many boys there were at the school, and secondly, why they were all queuing up to dance with her. While she'd certainly tried to make herself alluring, she hadn't quite expected this kind of success.

The sight of her fourth partner made her lose step with the dance around them and nearly toppled them over. Green eyes and black mussed fringe gazed back at her from behind round black frames.

8

There was an ache deep in Hermione's chest, and she didn't know how to relieve it. She half-ran down the corridor, away from her distress but uncertain where that might be. Harry was gone, and with him, her best friend and their only chance at a peaceful life without Voldemort. How long would it be before her family was targeted? If Harry could be assassinated in the Hogwarts hospital wing, how could she possibly protect her parents? The ache seemed to expand, and constrict her breathing.

Her hand found the rough stone of the wall and used its solidity to steady herself, to try to catch her breath. Two Ravenclaw third-years walked past her, their eyes watching her and curious. It was none of their business; she hated that they should see her in her grief, and so ran on, up a flight of steps and down one of the unused hallways. There was less light here, and her in her haste her hair caught on one of the unlit sconces. The pressure in her chest and throat was wrenched from her in a panicked sob. She collapsed against the wall and, with a shaking fist, ripped the tangle free before sliding to the floor.

Shaking and gasping for breath, Hermione was aware, intellectually, that she was hyperventilating. She was, in a vague, dissociated way, concerned that she should have so little control over herself as to be unable to stop. It was awful, the lack of oxygen. Her head felt full of gauze and there was a pain building behind her eyes. She forced herself to close them, and then her mouth, pinching her lips together. Her nostrils burned as her body was still racked with involuntary gasps. She pressed her lips tighter; she could to this; she was Hermione Granger, capable and in control. Gradually, her breathing finally began to slow.

When she had regained some control, she coughed, expelling the air and taking a slow, even breath to refill her lungs. Her throat and lungs were sore, and the muscles in her neck strained, but she continued her slow breathing until her head had cleared. She felt utterly drained and the first tears she'd shed since hearing about Harry's death trailed wearily down her cheeks. How could she do it? How could she still be the person that everyone relied on her to be? It wasn't enough; she'd always thought that with the right tools and the right knowledge, she could solve any problem, but maybe she just wasn't clever enough. She hadn't been able to help Harry in his coma, and now she never would. What was the use of being clever if she couldn't even use it to save the people she loved? A single sob escaped. She was afraid: terribly afraid.

Tears streamed silently down her face, and she ran her hands through her hair, trying to smooth down the bits she'd ripped apart earlier. Eventually she would have to fight, and she would lose. She was just a girl: moderately intelligent, with non-magical parents and average magical ability. She knew more spells than the average sixth year, and could list the properties of more potions, but that was going to help her very little when she came face to face with a Death Eater.

Her fingers moved to massage her breastbone, feeling the reminder of her last encounter with Voldemort's followers. They'd been lucky, and then the Order had arrived to save them. They were children, really. At sixteen she ought to be worried about NEWTs and boys, not about surviving long enough to graduate Hogwarts. What could _she_ do? Her tears slowed, and she took a shaky breath.

There was nothing she _could_ do that she wasn't already. Continue her quest for knowledge. Hope she came across something that might enable her to survive. It was a thin hope, more accepted necessity than hope at all. They had maybe a year before Voldemort would be ready to take on Hogwarts. There wasn't enough time to do anything truly useful. They'd have to cross their fingers and hope for the best. Her lips tried to smile as she thought of Ron's favourite motto. Oh, Ron.

He would be devastated. She may be his girlfriend, but he'd loved Harry just as deeply. She felt a pang of guilt at the words they'd exchanged the night before. She'd been lying, of course. When Harry had been in trouble, hurting, or lonely, Ron was right beside him. It had eaten him up, last year, when Harry had been so angry, distancing himself from them and shutting them out of his problems. Even more than she, who was aware that she tended to mother her boys, Ron had wanted to help Harry, to heal whatever hurt he was feeling. But now Harry had a hurt that was not fixable. There was no magic to bring back the dead. And so she straightened and took out her wand, casting a quick glamour to hide her disheveled appearance. She stood, brushing herself off, and set off in the direction of the common room. Somebody needed her, just as she'd needed him, and despite her self-doubts she'd be damned if she was going to let him down.

8

"Harry?!" she gasped, knowing even as she said it that it was impossible. But who would come to the ball mask-less and dressed as her comatose friend? She knew the answer even as a knowing grin replaced his surprised look.

"And Ginny Weasley, the only girl in school to know about Harry Potter. Unless you're Thomas James in disguise." He looked her up and down. "You _are_ Ginny, aren't you?"

"Tyler, _what_ are you doing dressed like Harry for the Masquerade? It's not a costume party!"

"Ah ha, I knew you knew more about him than you let on. Harry, is it? And of _course_ it's a costume party. Have you seen Dylan? If that's not a costume, I don't know what is. A really cool one, at that. He makes the perfect Scarf-o. Not even Tom Baker could pull off the Doctor as well as he can. He'd be proud. Or maybe envious..." He frowned in thought.

"And I'm sure you had nothing to do with that, did you?" At his guilty look, she knew she'd been right. She sighed. "You didn't even do a very good job. Harry's jaw is much less round, and his eyebrows are thicker. Also," she continued, reviewing the rest of him, "he's about two inches taller."

Tyler opened his mouth to speak and closed it again, looking slightly dejected. "Well, whatever. No one else here is going to notice that. Just how close _are_ you to him?"

Ginny looked away, and noticed a boy with a very black mask staring at them. "We're, uh, in the same house," she said, looking back into the unsettlingly familiar eyes. "But he's in a different year than me, of course. We never knew each other that well."

Ginny was almost surprised by her own reluctance to tell Tyler how much Harry meant to her. Maybe it was left-over resentment from her brother being his best friend, or lingering grief about his coma. Either way, she wanted to keep what she had of Harry to herself. Ginny pursed her lips at her own ridiculousness, and was about to say something more truthful, when the black-masked boy asked to cut in. She realized, as Tyler stalked away, that the mask wasn't only black; it seemed to absorb light. The contours of facial features were nearly impossible to distinguish since it reflected no shadows, making his deep green eyes especially piercing.

"You look beautiful, tonight," he said quietly, and Ginny was surprised to find that his voice was not at all muffled by his mask. Then she realized what he'd said, and blushed.

"Um, thank-you. You look," she hadn't noticed, being entranced by his mask, but looked now at the deep red robes he was wearing. They were cut finely, sweeping elegantly off his shoulders. His shirt underneath was black, and she could just barely see a glint of silver chain beneath his collar. "You look nice as well."

He made a noncommittal noise in his throat. "I've been watching you dance. You're very graceful, and I'm sure every girl in the room wishes she drew eyes as easily as you do. You don't seem... I was thinking... that is, are you happy, here?"

Ginny frowned at the question. A little creepy? Yes. He used the same tone that Tom used to. _What's troubling you, Ginny? Tell me what's wrong. Why are you unhappy?_ She banished the spectral recollection and focused on the fairly loaded question. Was she happy?

8

Blaise walked around the corner and stopped, staring at the girl slumped in the corridor in front of him. Brilliant, courageous, unflappable Hermione Granger, having a panic attack in the middle of the hall. He had half a mind to barge forward and demand that she cease her display, and half to administer an _Aequius_ spell to calm her down. Really; he'd been greatly mistaken in thinking her more rational and level-headed than her peers. Did _all_ girls have such weak control of their emotions? Except Millie. But she barely counted as a girl. Granger, however, he'd thought above such predilection. If he'd known that she simply ran off by herself to let them out he'd never have afforded her the compliment. Had she done less than outstandingly on that Potions essay they'd handed in? Simple, melodramatic Gryffindor. It looked as though Draco was right. They _were_ all alike.

He frowned as her gasping became less audible, and then ceased. Girls were too delicate-- oh gods, now she was _crying_. Well, at least she wasn't being loud any more. He adjusted his instrument on his shoulder and was about to continue walking when her head began to raise. He darted around the corner, just as her hand brushed her mane of hair out of her eyes. Disillusioning himself, Blaise took a quiet step back into Granger's hallway. She looked terrible. He could see why she'd slunk off into an unused corridor to have her cry, because her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot and her tears were making portions of her already-hopeless hair stick to her face. She pulled a chunk of it out of her mouth, and Blaise watched with a morbid fascination as it came away with a small trail of saliva still attached. He winced in disgust when she tucked it behind her ear and used the same hand to flatten the rest of her mop. She looked like something the cat had considered dragging in and then rejected as being too pathetic. And she was. Downright miserable. Blaise would have scoffed if it wouldn't have drawn attention to his sadistic voyeurism. He supposed that his internal mockery and - slight - enjoyment of Granger's distress _did_ make him a bit of a sadist, albeit a passive, opportunistic one.

His internal monologue went on hiatus as she stood and brushed herself off. A flick of her wand and a glamour was in place projecting her usual, unremarkable features. His fingers itched to remove it, but he stilled them. He wasn't _that_ cruel. Yet. She squared her shoulders and picked up her rucksack, turning her back to him and walking swiftly away. Only when she had turned into another corridor and was well out of earshot did he finally allow himself a snort of derision. Gryffindors.

8

"Happy enough, I suppose," she told the stranger evasively, "given that I'm being danced off my feet by mysterious and handsome boy." She smiled coquettishly at him, and was rewarded with a few moments of silence as his mouth opened and closed with nothing to say.

When he'd recovered there was a tinge of pink to his ears as he said, "Well, that's a relief; the last time I danced it was an atrocious spectacle. That you don't seem overly concerned is a compliment to my teacher."

Ginny raised her eyebrows. "It couldn't have been that bad; you're quite good, now." The boy laughed, and the sound of it made Ginny smile. She wished she could see his mouth.

"Actually, it really is to her credit," he continued, changing the direction of their four-step. "She had to be quite fearsome in her efforts to make me at all graceful on anything but a broomstick."

"You like flying?" she replied without thinking. "That's unusual; people here tend to prefer Jo'Ouqye to Quidditch."

But the boy either didn't notice that she's referred to Opasquia as a group distinct from herself, or he ignored it. "My father loved to fly. I got it from him." Then the boy's eyes crinkled as if he were smiling. "What about you? Do you fly?"

Ginny grinned, happy to have found a conversation she could definitely enjoy--even if it were one that might make her more Ginny Weasley than simply another masked student, as she'd previously aspired. "Whenever I can. I used to go out flying at night, just for the thrill of it; it was the most liberating feeling in the world."

"Even better than using a wand for the first time," he added. It wasn't a question, but a statement, and rightly so.

"Exactly. It can't even compare. My--my brothers never used to let me fly with them, so I nicked their brooms to practice on while they were sleeping. I'm going to beat them all, one day."

"Ah ha! Beautiful _and_ resourceful. I'm impressed and a little intimidated. I'd make a note to keep tabs on my broom, but it's back at--at home."

They smiled--or Ginny assumed he smiled--at each other for a few moments before the stranger asked, "So what else do you like, Girl in Green?"

"Girl in Green? Wow, you must have really worked on that one, oh Boy in Black." Ginny rolled her eyes, but good-naturedly. She looked down quickly, and narrowly avoided stepping on a long striped scarf worn by the boy she thought Tyler had identified as Dylan.

"I most certainly did. For the entirety of the time I was working up the courage to ask you to dance, if you must know. Would it be more impressive if I said I was colour-blind?"

"Not a bit. I'd want to know, first of all, why you haven't had that fixed my a Medi-witch, and secondly, you should be easily able to read it from its inverse."

He laughed again, and Ginny felt compelled to try and recreate that sound, so filled was it with happiness. They rotated on the outskirts of the dance floor.

"Well, I still think you're not giving me enough credit. I didn't call you 'Greensleeves', now, did I?"

"Thank Merlin for small favours," Ginny said in mock-relief.

The boy laughed again, and then, to Ginny's disbelief, began singing.

"_Alas, my love, you do me wrong, to laugh me off discourteously. For I have watched you oh, so long, and now I delight in your company."_"

He wasn't really in tune, but Ginny was tickled both by his ad hoc improvised verse and by its compliment. "Thank-you, I think. Have you really been watching me?"

"Ever since you stepped into the room. I was sincere when I said you were beautiful. I was stunned, and have yet to be _Ennervate_d." His eyes were locked with hers, but she thought she could see a teasing gleam in them. He moved them back towards the thick of the turning melee.

"Oh you _are_ a charmer, aren't you?" she remarked with false asperity. Then she smiled, "But congratulations on using the lamest line I have ever had the pleasure to experience. You beat out my last boyfriend, who thought that "I must be a Niffler, because you're shiny like a star", was the way to go."

She was delighted to win another laugh, but tried to keep her objectivity, noting, "And you can't be _that_ enchanted. You don't even know my name."

"You're the Girl in Green," he replied, "and that's enough for me."

But that last thought had sobered Ginny far more than she'd intended. "I don't know if any one knows who I really am, and not just at the Masque. I think I may even have forgotten who that girl is. Isn't that sad?"

Whatever he would have replied to her comment, however, she never knew, because another boy cut in, and the boy in black left the floor, meeting her eyes one last time over his shoulder with a dark and worried gaze.

8

A few hours later, Blaise was experiencing an unpleasant and largely unfamiliar sensation. It was with equal parts guilt and regret that he thought about his assessment of Granger's reaction to her best friend's death. Far from melodramatic, for a Gryffindor it had been remarkably calm and contained. A genuine show of grief at the loss of a loved one was nothing to mock, and Blaise was sorry he'd done so, albeit unknowingly. Furthermore, as the hall sat in shock at Dumbledore's announcement, he felt that he ought to somehow apologize, something which, for him, was nigh unheard of.

He looked toward the Gryffindor table, but both she and Weasley were absent. Not truly surprising, he supposed. If Millie or Draco were to be murdered he doubted he'd feel up to supper and a bite of pudding. The fact that Potter had been murdered--Blaise could read between the diagonal lines of Dumbledore's speech, there was no way he'd simple "passed on" from his coma--this was Harry Potter, after all--was worrisome. Given that Professor Snape was still seated at the staff table, it meant that the Dark Lord either had another very powerful spy within the castle, or that he'd managed to find a way to pass the wards around Hogwarts undetected.

For the older Slytherins it would essentially mean increased vigilance and necessary deception even within their own house. He'd have to watch out for Draco especially; he knew the Dark Lord had taken a liking to him and that his friend would be easily manipulated through threats to his mother. His own family was fairly peripheral to the Death Eaters, a fact for which he was grateful, but if there was a spy in Hogwarts then everyone was going to need to curtail any words or actions which might be construed as disloyal to the cause.

Dumbledore broke the silence by dismissing everyone to bed, and Blaise rose with the rest of his housemates. Everyone was pale, and Draco, who had shared the most animosity with the boy looked positively green. Blaise was thankful that none among his house was thick enough to say anything about what they had just heard. There were no cheers or jeers, just silence. No one could fault the Slytherins this time for poor manners.

Pansy whispered something to Daphne before walking over and slipping her arm through Draco's. Blaise silently approved. By now most of the Slytherins would have come to the same conclusion that he had, and only the most obvious physical affection would be appropriate. Pansy and Draco were engaged, it was unlikely that an outsider would be able to read the gesture for the comfort that was intended.

Stopping his thoughts, Blaise looked around for their foreign student. Frank was nowhere to be seen. Strange, but now that he thought about it, he hadn't seen her since breakfast. She'd received an owl and then become rather nervous, only picking at the remains of her food. He wondered what had happened. His eyes next sought out the girls in her year, and he quickened his stride to catch up with them.

"Brenna, Shannon, have you seen Frank?"

They both gave him blank looks and he turned away with a frown. Normally he wouldn't be so perturbed at her being missing for only a few hours, but circumstances had quickly left normal far behind. As he left the Great Hall, his steps veered towards the kitchens. Maybe she'd stopped down there to eat. He'd found her there more than once in the past couple weeks, purportedly because she enjoyed the hidden doorway, being delighted with its whimsy. He laughed humourlessly to himself. Well, she'd better enjoy it, because there was going to be very little to delight in the coming months.

He skipped down a flight of stairs, and darted through a tapestry before arriving in front of the painting of the fruit bowl. A moment later and the door nob was in his hand, but it seemed to be turning of its own accord. Slipping back behind the tapestry, Blaise watched through the loose weave as the door was flung open and Weasley stormed out into the hall. Alas, it appeared as though he'd be spying on Granger twice today. How embarrassing.

"I _don't_ think we should do nothing, Ron, but running off with no plan is simply not smart." Granger followed on his heels, and Blaise almost missed Weasley's reply when he saw not only Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom close behind them, but _Frank_, who was looking calm as you please despite being situated in the figurative lions den.

"All right, well what do you suggest, Hermione? Because I'm _sick_ of waiting around here for You-Know-Who to come find us! We're always either too young, or too inexperienced, or too innocent to bloody _do_ anything in this war! We faced Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries, didn't we? Then what makes us not good enough to be part of the Order? Harry's dead, Hermione, and I don't want to sit here cooling my heels until it's my turn!"

Longbottom took a breath as if he was going to say something, but Granger interrupted.

"You're right. There's nothing innocent left when you find out your friend's been murdered. But we _are_ young Ron. _And_ inexperienced! If Mad-eye and Sirius hadn't arrived we would likely all be dead. What can we possibly do that Dumbledore and the Order aren't already?"

"Yeah, and a great job they're doing, too! Keeping us safe from Death Eater assassins and all."

"Enough." Blaise, who'd been growing more and more interested by their mention of what could only be the Order of the Phoenix, was surprised that the objection to their argument would come from Longbottom. The boy couldn't look at Snape without wetting himself, it would be interesting to hear what he had to say about Death Eaters.

"We're not going looking for Voldemort, Ron. The rest of us don't have a death wish." Impressive that he would actually use the Dark Lord's name. And foolish. "But that doesn't mean we're going to do nothing. You'll get your fight eventually, I promise, but don't you want to be able to get off more than an _Expelliarmus_ before you die? I've been thinking--actually since before Dumbledore told us this morning--that we should restart the DA."

Weasley scoffed, shooting Longbottom a surprisingly venomous glare for a Gryffindor. "_Wonderful_ idea, Neville, unfortunately Harry's _dead_. Fat lot of good it did him, knowing how to die fighting, when when his time came he didn't even get the chance to look the bastard in the eye."

"Ron, please, don't talk about it like that." It was Frank who had spoken. Blaise frowned, both at the timidness of her address, and that she'd referred to Weasley by his first name. What was she doing there? Was she _friends_ with these people? What was it about them that had her usually tenacious spirit so cowed?

"Like what? Truthfully? Well don't worry too much, Frank, there's not going to be a lot of honesty around in the next little while. After all, the rest of the school doesn't even know he was murdered in his sleep." Weasley spat the last word bitterly and continued in a harsh tone, "But then you'd already know all about honesty, sleeping with the Slytherins. I'm surprised you're even here, and not partying it up in your common room. Tell me, will there be cake at your Boy-Who-Lived-Then-Died celebration?"

Frank put her hands on her hips in precedence of what was probably going to be a good tongue-lashing, but Granger beat her to the punch.

"Ron--" Granger began in reprimand, but this time Longbottom interrupted her. His voice was as calm as it had ever been, and Blaise found himself involuntarily impressed at the boy's forbearance.

"Really, Ron, it's not doing us any good to lash out at each other. I was just suggesting that Harry's death should inspire us to improve our skills instead of rowing uselessly amongst ourselves. It's okay to be angry, but it's not okay to take it out on people who don't deserve it. Frank had nothing to do with it. The blame is on Voldemort and his followers, but we'll never be able to oppose them in righteous anger until we gain the experience that you've already admitted we don't have. Harry was our leader, but now it's time to lead ourselves. You can cut down the tallest tree in the forest, but the others won't wither and die. They grow to fill the space left by their fallen brother, taller, and greener than before. Wouldn't you agree, Zabini?" He turned then, in the direction of Blaise's tapestry.

Blaise blinked in surprise. Damn! He was certain that they hadn't noticed him before he'd hidden; how had Longbottom known? Pasting a Draco-inspired smirk on his face, he flicked the fabric aside and stepped out to meet his peers.

8

_A/N: Well my last chapter got four reviews, which was positively delightful, so because of that, and because Nymphadora is always telling me that my story moves too slowly, here's another one! I absolutely loved reading your predictions and opinions after my last chapter. I've got one person in hate with my Canadians, one who thinks Tom is Harry's alter ego(or something), and somebody else who thinks that Dumbledore may have contrived Harry's death! Goodness me! I'd love to hear more of these wonderful ideas, so send me a review, if you please. _


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